


Reconstruction

by JayEz



Series: Civil Disobedience [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Slavery, BAMF!John, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, M/M, Omega!Sherlock, Politics, Post-Revolution, Sex in a Car, Skinning, former slavery AU, heat cycle, seriously a lot of politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 69,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Civil Disobedience".<br/>After a successful revolution, the Empire is in pieces and New Britain has to reinvent itself. In the middle of it are Alpha John Watson, former First Officer of the Reformists, and Omega Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scenes between chapter 5 of part I and the epilogue. Information on the timeline: It took two weeks to execute the Reformists’ plan that led to The Fall of the Empire (aka “the Fall”). The provisional government ruled for three months until the election of Bhabha as Prime Minister (which brings us to the Epilogue of part I).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Civil Disobedience was supposed to be finished. Really. My Muse and my beloved readers had other plans. :) Sorry for keeping you all waiting so long. I started right after I completed part I but then I was derailed by a Harry/Draco rape recovery fic (" Gorgeous"). 
> 
> Thanks to my beta [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) \- you are amazing!!!
> 
> Vinette Robinson is the actress who portrays Sally Donovan. I needed an unusual name and I liked hers.  
> “The Solidary Cyclist” is the title of a Sherlock Holmes book by AC Doyle.
> 
> Matrix = uterus in male Omegas.  
> Which brings us to: Why is no one pregnant with all the knotting going on? Originally, I wanted to completely ignore that potential problem because Mpreg is one of my biggest squicks. But after a few inquiries I had to face the fact that, if I wanted to keep this a “real” Omegaverse, I would have to deal with the issue, or lack of an issue, since Sherlock seems to not have got pregnant between chapter 5 and 6. The whole mystery will be solved by the end of chapter 1!

Mycroft is sitting in one of the armchairs in 221B Baker Street, right hand playing absent-mindedly with his umbrella. 

CCTV detected Sherlock twenty minutes ago. He should be here any minute. 

Mycroft tries to ignore the warm feeling that spread in his chest when he heard Sherlock is alive, that he somehow survived the attack on the Reformist HQ. Compassion will not help him taking his brother into custody, nor help him put the collar around Sherlock’s neck. 

The collar is resting on the table in front of him. Sherlock will see it immediately and know what is to come. Mycroft would have preferred putting Sherlock back on Metamoxin, but ever since someone leaked his brother’s omega status, that has become impossible. Sherlock needs to be collared, become a slave. 

Anthea enters swiftly. Her nod tells him his brother is almost here, so he grips the umbrella tighter, focussing his eyes on the door while Anthea hides from view. 

A few minutes pass in silence. Then, the door handle turns. 

Sherlock freezes when he sees Mycroft in the chair but a split of a second later, he turns on his heels only to find his way blocked by Anthea who has come out of her spot in a corner. 

“I have ten SAS people in the building. Every possible exit is guarded. You can’t escape.”

Mycroft watches Sherlock’s shoulders slump in resignation. His brothers turns slowly, expression blank. His eyes fall onto the collar. 

“So you finally make me your slave?”

Mycroft huffs. “We don’t have a choice here, Sherlock.”

When his brother remains still, Mycroft rises from the chair, takes the collar and approaches him, careful to keep his face as blank as possible as he closes the leather around his brother’s neck. 

Sherlock doesn’t look up to meet his eyes. Mycroft sees his hand twitch as if it wanted to reach up, touch the fabric. It is the softest leather money can buy. 

“Have a seat, Sherlock. Tell me about your time with the Reformists.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Stifling a sigh, Mycroft’s eyes dart to Anthea who pushes his brother to the second chair while Mycroft resumes his seat. 

Begrudgingly, his brother sits down and tries his best to lounge in the chair like he usually does, but his body language betrays his unease. 

“What did they do to you?”

Sherlock merely holds his gaze for thirty seconds, then probably realises that he is not going anywhere until he answers. 

“They kept me in a cell. I was fed and had access to a bathroom.”

“How did you spend the heat?”

“Alone.” Sherlock shudders at the memory. Mycroft can only imagine how it must have been like for his brother, losing control over his body like that, too stubborn to accept help. 

“How did you get out?”

“I was on my way to the bathroom when the attack happened and used the surprise to overpower the guards. I found a way into the Tube tunnels while everyone was busy defending the HQ.”

For the moment, Mycroft acts as though he believes every word. He knows his brother better than to take his words at face value. Yet this mystery needs to be solved another time, he decides with a look at his watch. 

“Let me make this quick. You are now a slave, Sherlock, my personal slave. No one holds power over you but me.” The way Sherlock’s eyes narrow and widen shows he understands the implications: No one can touch Sherlock. “You will still work on cases for me, but under close supervision. We will see to what other uses we can put you. The collar stays on. It has a trace; don’t try to run off, we’ll always know where you are. There are only two keys of which I have one. Even if opened with a key, Sherlock, it will trigger a warning. So don’t think you can simply escape. Anthea will teach you proper behaviour later.”

There is no verbal response but Sherlock’s eyes have gone icy. 

Mycroft can live with his brother resenting him for the rest of his life, as long as Mycroft owns the collar that inspires the hatred. 

Anthea guides Sherlock from the room down to where the car is waiting. Flanked by guards, Mycroft exits 221B Baker Street, looking around. 

He is in enemy territory. But that won’t stop him. If everything goes according to plan, there will soon be no more enemy territory, only his London. 

*

Mycroft doesn’t like torture, not per se. It has proven to be a useful tool, however. But Captain John Watson seems to be immune to pain of any kind and refuses to give away any information. 

Mycroft sighs heavily in the solitude of his room when he comes to a decision. Execution used to be the last option. Now it is the only option left. 

*

“Sir.” Anthea looks tense which has only happened once before. Something has gone wrong. 

“What?” 

She hesitates. Anthea doesn’t hesitate. “Captain John Watson isn’t in his cell.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes.

“He is nowhere to be found. It seems he escaped.”

Mycroft analyses what he observed the past days, remembers seemingly insignificant details like Sherlock’s gaze lingering a second too long on John Watson, and the puzzle solves itself in one horrible rush. 

“And where is my brother?”

Anthea swallows. “His collar was found in front of a door that leads into the Tube tunnels. A search party is already in pursuit.”

Mycroft is not a violent person, never was. But all of a sudden, he has the inexplicable urge to hit something. 

Without Watson to execute, the Reformist’s spirit will remain unbroken. What will happen if Watson finds his way back to them, Mycroft doesn’t want to imagine. 

*

The Empire falls in one night. This one night changes the lives of every Alpha, Beta and Omega, both in Britain and in the colonies. 

The only consolation Mycroft has is that the Reformists have no time to celebrate: Reconstruction has already begun.

*

“Mr Holmes, you have a visitor.”

Mycroft’s eyes snap up from the book he is reading to the guard peering in through the window in the door. “And who might that be?”

He knows, of course. There is only one person he expects to drop by Belmarsh maximum security prison to see Mycroft Holmes in unflattering plain prison attire. 

“Your brother.”

With a sigh, Mycroft rises and extends his hand through the second hole in the door for the guard to cuff him, then follows the long way to the visitation area. 

Sherlock took his time, he muses. He doubts his brother was busy with anything; Sherlock proved time and time again that he has no interest in politics and therefore Mycroft doubts he was involved in any of the reconstructive measures the Reformists have undertaken since his capture. 

Democracy. Equal rights. Manumission for all Omegas. New trials for enslaved Betas. Independence for every colony that claims it. Appointing a provisional government. 

Those rebels have been diligent already, though their aspirations are even more colourful, it seems if they are indeed aiming for a social upheaval that leaves everyone equal.

The guard points him to a chair in front of a glass wall that separates him from the man already seated on the other side. Mycroft is cuffed to the chair, trying to endure the procedure with as much dignity as he can muster, taking in his brother’s stoic expression. 

Sherlock looks good, he hates to admit. Confident, content even. Mycroft bets that if he could smell his brother now, he would not only catch his scent but that of Captain John Watson as well. 

Captain John Watson. The flaw in Mycroft’s plan. 

“Hello, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“How’s prison treating you? You seem to be finally losing some of that weight.” 

“Yes, they have a lovely wellness program here. Didn’t you read the brochures?” Mycroft counters, trying to conceal his irritation. 

His brother’s mask gives way to a smirk and Mycroft knows he isn’t fooling the consulting detective. 

Silence falls. Mycroft’s thoughts wander back to the moment he was taken captive. He was so sure that he would escape successfully, was wearing a rather smug expression if he was completely honest, when suddenly, he and his entourage were surrounded by more than forty reformists, led by no other than Watson. 

It clicked, right then; and Mycroft wanted to kick himself for failing to acknowledge the signs. For counting on his brother’s ability to alienate every single person he ever encountered, given enough time. 

Mycroft could smell the fury radiating off Captain Watson, could sense how tight the grip on his Sig was, how much he longed to pull the trigger. 

“Thoreau said you’re the reason I’m still alive.” Spat it, even, Mycroft remembers. Marc Thoreau’s right hand was clenched in a tight fist as though the man was trying to keep it from reaching for a weapon.

Sherlock looks startled for a moment that Mycroft is the one who breaks the silence first. “Yes. I couldn’t do that to Mummy.” 

“You’ve done enough.” It is harsh, but true. Giving birth to an Omega was something his mother never forgave herself for, even though on the outside, she always was supportive when it came to Sherlock. Needless to say, Sherlock saw right through her from an early age on. 

“I can’t change my biology.”

“The thing is – you could, and you did. You could have refused the pills at any moment.” His brother is silent, clearly thinking about New Britain and the Equal Rights Legislation, and Mycroft can but laugh. “Do you honestly think anything will change, Sherlock? The system, the hierarchy – it’s in our minds, it’s under our skin. It’s taken residence there decades ago. People will always look down on you for what you are.”

“What people think of me doesn’t bother me.” Sherlock opens his mouth again but Mycroft cuts him off. 

“No, the only one whose opinion matters is Captain John Watson.” Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut, which is all Mycroft needs. “So I’m correct. I have to say your connection with him surprises me. No one ever gets close to you, you never let them. You never had friends.”

“Now I have one.”

“What makes him different, Sherlock?” Yes, Watson is loyal and brave and – even though he will never say it out loud – one bloody strong Alpha. Yet, he seems like nothing special. Knowing Sherlock, however, there has to be something to make him unique. 

He can see the muscles in his brother’s jaw working as if he is considering his answer very carefully. Mycroft is even further intrigued. How deep is Sherlock’s connection to the Alpha?

“It’s not your concern, Mycroft. You’re in jail.”

“Not for long.”

This earns him an amused eyebrow-raise. “Not even I see how you could slither your way out of this.”

Mycroft merely smiles. He is working on it. Without much success so far, though his brother doesn’t need to know that. 

After they spent a few minutes in silence again, Mycroft leans forward, face serious. 

“There are a little over 60 million people living Britain alone. That means that with your help, the Reformists freed 24 million Omegas. Omegas who are used to nothing but living as illiterate slaves. Now they are free. But what will they do with their freedom, Sherlock? What will become of the Empire? Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Sherlock’s eyes have widened, yet it is the only reaction Mycroft receives before his brother stands up and leaves with a flourish of his coat. 

*

London feels different when John walks the few blocks from 221B Baker Street to the nearest shop. 

True, he only ever experienced it as a citizen for a few days after Afghanistan before he joined the Reformists and had to go underground, but still. Change is in the air. 

It is not the wired kind of elation he experienced during the night of The Fall, when Michael Collins, leader of the students, proclaimed a New Britain with equal rights for all. New flavours have been added to the atmosphere, not all positive. 

During his missions, John sees enough to fill in the blanks. Wide-eyed omegas, muttering “We’re free” with no idea what it will entail. Former slaves at the free clinic whose backs consist entirely of scar tissue from too many whippings. Housing shortage. The provisional government organising emergency camps, converting buildings into housing complexes for the newly freed citizens. Alphas and Betas clinging to the old order of things, hiding their Omegas away in their cellar where neither light nor food reaches them for days until the patrols have passed. 

John shakes himself out of his reverie when he enters the shop, checks his list and grabs a trolley, taking his time. 

Lacking a current case, Sherlock has busied himself with an experiment that apparently allows no interruptions. 

He is considering the tea selection when he notices the supermarket employee a few feet to his right has stopped restocking the shelves. John twists his head and meets the woman’s – the girl’s – eyes, sees her inhale deeply. 

He concentrates hard and finds there is indeed something familiar about her scent.

“Pardon, sir,” she says, head slightly bowed – an old reflex. She used to be a slave, John muses. “Are you Captain John Watson?” He nods. “Do you remember me?”

John considers her, the long blond hair and the deep, green eyes. Her name tag reads Vinette Robinson, which rings a bell. “Did I free you once?”

She nods. It’s a short and jerky movement and her hands fidget with nervous energy. 

“In Sussex, sir. You freed five Omegas and one Beta. You told us that you heard that our owners were torturing us.”

Suddenly, John remembers. It was on his last mission before the Triumvirate sent him to kidnap Sherlock. He glances at the girl’s neck, pleased to find it unbruised. 

“I lost sight of you after we took you to HQ. How have you been?”

“Good, sir. I was moved to a secure location after the attack, along with many of the others.”

John smiles at her. “You got a job now, congratulations.” It is hard for Omegas to find work, especially since most of them can hardly read. John hopes the situation will improve once they have a newly elected government.

“Yes! I had a lot of luck. I learned to read from the Beta who was with us. And I’m young, so they can teach me and I didn’t have any permanent wounds…” She trails of, her mind clearly drifting off to friends who weren’t so lucky. Before John can think of something to say to ease her discomfort, she catches herself again. “It’s minimum wage but the manager said that if I’m good, I will get a raise soon.”

“That’s brilliant,” John says, meaning it. The provisional government fixed a minimum employers had to pay Omegas. It’s not nearly enough but without rent to pay, life is manageable. “Did you get a room in the government facilities?”

She nods. “With a few roommates, but we’ve become friends. It’s not much, but at least it’s my own. If this is working out and I get a raise, a few of us will look into apartments. You know, with bathrooms of our own.” She blushes a bit at that, probably afraid she said too much, but John knows how meagre the conditions are in the buildings. 

“Did you get help? You know, after the Fall.”

“Yes, I… I did.”

John narrows his eyes. “But?”

Vinette glances around, uncertain. “Well, sir, three hours with a state appointed psychiatrist can’t really do much about years of… being an Omega.”

John can guess the rest. Three hours is what the provisional government included in their emergency plans, and true, John is glad that the former slaves at least got some help, but most of them need long term care. 

Many patients at the clinic still flinch when John as much as moves too fast. 

Psychiatric help, however, is expensive. 

“I can look into that,” John offers, feeling the need to take action. He knows Bhabha, still is in contact with him. He actually is in a position to help. “I can’t promise that anything will change right away, but I’ll do my best.”

Vinette’s eyes light up and she takes a step closer. “You’ve already done so much for us, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He looks back at the aisle, remembering that he was thinking about tea before. “You could do something for me, though,” he adds with a smirk. 

“Sir?” Vinette looks nervous again. 

“What kind of tea would you recommend?”

When she catches up, she bursts into giggles and John joins in with a laugh of his own.

*

Back at 221B Baker Street, John unloads the grocery bags onto the living room table, since Sherlock is without doubt still blocking the one in the kitchen. 

“Did you bring the vinegar?” is Sherlock’s shouted greeting from around the corner. 

“Yes, I did!”

A little rummaging later unveils the bottle and John makes his way into the kitchen. Every available surface is covered in utensils, phials, petri dishes… John can even make out a bunsen burner in the mess.

Sherlock doesn’t glance up when he enters and places the vinegar near his elbow, but remains focussed on whatever he is watching on the microscope. Sherlock tried to explain it to him yesterday what exactly he is researching, but John couldn’t remember the details to save his life. 

Especially when Sherlock smells like that, content and focussed and strong, the spicy-sweet scent filling up the room despite the chemicals. 

John rounds the table until he is standing directly behind Sherlock and leans forward, nuzzling Sherlock’s neck. He freezes, hands still on the microscope. 

“John, not now.” 

John licks Sherlock’s pulse point, knowing fully well what kind of effect it has on the Omega. Sherlock shudders. 

“John, stop –“ The end of the sentence gives way to a gasp as John sucks down, hard, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s shoulders and bringing his hands up to hold onto Sherlock’s arms. 

Another full-body shudder and John bites down, eliciting a moan but suddenly, Sherlock tenses, catching himself. 

“John.”

Reluctantly, he pulls away, kissing Sherlock’s neck one last time before he makes to put away the groceries as well as possible with the kitchen in such disarray. 

It is a well-rehearsed game by now: John initiates and either Sherlock allows him to whisk the detective away from whatever research he is doing or Sherlock stands his ground, no matter what his or John’s bodies say. 

When the eggs are finally in the fridge – far enough away from whatever Sherlock stores in the closed tupperware container – John retreats to the living room. He still has to write up their last case, “The Solidary Cyclist”. 

Two months have passed since the Fall and Sherlock has borrowed John’s help – well, ordered John or simply told him to come along is more like it – for whatever cases Lestrade is sending his way. Apparently criminals don’t care if the Reconstruction Era is upon them and take a break for a few weeks. 

John can’t help often; most of the time he is on missions, sometimes he volunteers in the Free Clinic, but he likes spending time with Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. 

With a deep breath, John powers up his laptop and for a moment revels in the fact that in the apartment, their scents have mixed, become one. Either is still distinguishable, yet their continued presence has added another layer above their individual ones. 

John refuses to think about the meaning of mixed scents. He refuses to think about a lot of things when it comes to Sherlock and him, because thinking would require labelling and that is something Sherlock hasn’t shown any interest in so far. Neither has John. But then, he is not thinking about it. 

It works, whatever it is. It is an easy balance and John has no idea how they achieved it. 

*

As former First Officer of the Reformists, it is not too difficult to get into contact with Homi Bhabha, who is – along with Adler, Thoreau and Michel Collins – leading the provisional government.

John follows the secretary through the halls of Westminster Abbey, contemplating what he is going to say to Bhabha about his conversation with Vinette. Instructing him to wait for Bhabha, the Beta leads him to large, wooden doors which open to a spacious office. 

John’s eyes sweep the room out of reflex, noting doors leading to further rooms, large curtained windows, and a map. With a smile he recognises it as the same map that used to decorate the conference room at HQ. 

“I grew rather fond of that map, I have to admit,” Bhabha’s familiar voice comes from behind John. 

If possible, Homi Bhabha looks even more exhausted than he did during the final phase of the civil war. There are dark circles under the Omega’s eyes and his trousers sit way too loose around his waist. 

“Sir.”

Shaking his hand, Bhabha asks, “To what do I owe your visit?”

“No time for pleasantries?” John raises an eyebrow, which seems to startle Bhabha a little. 

“I’m so sorry, Captain. Everything has been so rushed these past weeks, my manners must have faded.”

“Frankly, you do look overworked. Are you alright, Bhabha?”

“Operating on too little rest and too much adrenaline, but there’s nothing I can change about my predicament. There’s a country to rebuild.”

Bhabha motions to the desk so John follows the Omega’s lead and takes a seat across the table from him. 

“How is it going?”

Bhabha’s sigh is so heavy that it tells John more than any words could ever do. He has been around the man long enough to read between the lines, and what he finds there is something far from a perfect world. 

“Apart from the traditionalists still scattered across New Britain and too many Omegas to find shelter for, a too high illiteracy rate, a colossal lack of funds, a public that has no idea how to treat an Omega who is now one’s equal and an unstable economy? We’re making progress. You’re playing your part well, John.”

“Thank you, sir. But all I do is bring freedom to those who are still kept from it.”

“No, John,” Bhabha says, shaking his head softly, “you’re doing a lot more than that. You’re a war hero. A beacon of hope! An Alpha who risks his life for Omegas and Betas alike and volunteers in one of the free clinics on top of that. Don’t underestimate yourself.”

John is acutely aware of the colour rising in his cheeks. 

“But my secretary told me you had an issue to discuss?”

“Yes,” John starts, explaining about how he ran into Vinette and how they got talking. “I’m serious, Bhabha, I’ve seen first-hand how traumatised a lot of Omegas still are. Three hours is not enough. You need to get them help, or soon you will have 24 million people with severe forms of PTSD or other illnesses.”

Bhabha considers him for a long moment, then nods, though more in resignation it seems than in agreement. 

“You‘re right, John, of course you‘re right. But what am I supposed to do? Practicing psychiatrist haven‘t exactly been happy about having to provide their services free of charge in the first place. Three sessions was already stretching their patience. How do you think they‘re going to react to more hours of free work?“

“But it‘s their job as doctors to help those in need! Especially in a time after a crisis!“ 

“It‘s very noble that you hold that opinion but I‘m afraid not many colleagues share it. I‘d love nothing more than to pass a law that mandates psychiatrist to provide their help to Omegas and Betas in need. I‘m just not sure I can convince the rest.“

“Could you at least try? Because what I see in the Free Clinic alone... Bhabha, they need help.“

This time, Bhabha‘s nod is more resolute. “I will do my best.“

John rises from his chair, extending a hand. “Thank you.“

Bhabha moves as well, leading him to the door. He pauses with a hand on the knob. “Oh, before I forget: After the election in five weeks, we are having a celebration, no matter who wins. I‘d very much like you to come.“

A party. John can‘t help but smile at the thought. “Of course I‘ll come.“

“And see that you bring Mr Holmes as well?“

“I‘ll drag him there if I have to. Which I probably will,“ he chuckles, Bhabha joining in soon after. 

*

John accepts the coffee from Greg with a grateful smile.

“Don’t thank me till you tried it,” the DI warns, but when John takes a sip, it tastes normal. 

“This is good coffee, why shouldn’t it taste good?”

“Donovan prepared it, I’m still not entirely sure if I would put poisoning you to get back at Sherlock past her.”

John chuckles. “She deserves being called out if she believes she can keep up her affair with Anderson without Sherlock knowing about it.”

Lestrade huffs a laugh and glances towards the door to the room Sherlock ushered them out of. 

“Everybody out, I need to think!” he bellowed and John knew better than to argue, as did Lestrade; only Donovan and Anderson looked a bit cross. 

In moments like this John is still a bit dazzled that an Omega can simply order around a group of Alphas and Betas in this new world. And he is sure that Donovan and Anderson would like the situation, if it weren’t Sherlock Holmes and his special personality they had to deal with. 

“By the way, John, nice going with the Solidary Cyclist, great title for that case.”

“Thank you,” John replies automatically, then narrows his eyes. “You read my blog?”

Greg laughs heartedly. “Of course. The whole Met reads it, I guess.”

He shrugs and tries to mentally scan his articles for any sort of derogatory comments about the police. 

“Stop worrying, John, we’re all fans. Maybe not of your other half, but of you and the blog.”

He raises his eyebrows at that. “My other half?”

Lestrade chooses not to answer but smirks instead. 

Just when John wants to object, because he and Sherlock still haven’t explicitly talked about whatever it is they share every time Sherlock goes into heat and the weeks in between, or when John cooks and makes Sherlock eat because he would starve otherwise, or when they cuddle before falling asleep. 

Of course that is when Sherlock calls, “John!” and he is halfway down the hallway to the door before he realises that he might have just proven Greg’s point. 

John turns to find the DI grinning. 

“You are so whipped, Captain.”

And John probably is, he muses, warmth spreading within his chest as he prepares to be ordered around by the best consulting detective New Britain has ever seen. He finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

The Omega’s body is where they left it upon giving Sherlock the room to himself: On the shabby carpet floor, covered in blood from a wound to the lower abdomen, gagged by what appears to be a scarf. The man’s shirt has been ripped, exposing the edges of the wound. 

“Thoughts?” Sherlock asks from his position at the small window a few feet away. 

John leans over the body, closer inspection proving his theory. “The man was still alive when they cut him open. He’d have died within a few minutes, given the depth and length of the incision.”

His eyes travel further up, spot a bruise on the victim’s temple. “He was unconscious when the murderer made the cut. Also explains why there are no defensive wounds and why the victim was gagged. The pain woke him, but the gag silenced his screams.”

Nodding, Sherlock takes a step in his direction. “Look closer.”

Intrigued, John leans in, inspecting the cut – then freezes. “The matrix is missing.” A glance at Sherlock shows John that the detective’s eyes are scanning every inch of the room, intrigued. “Why is the matrix missing?”

“I have four – no, five, theories.”

“Can you prove any of them?”

“Not yet.”

A noise alerts them to the door opening, revealing an apologetic looking Greg and a smug Anderson, which means their time is up. 

“Anything?” The DI asks Sherlock. 

“Five possible solutions. The victim’s missing matrix is the biggest clue. Either someone wanted the organ to sell it, matrixes earn quite a sum on the local black market” – why Sherlock would know that, or how, is beyond John – “or we’re dealing with a hate crime or someone who wants to make it seem as such, but instead it was a fellow Omega who held a grudge against the victim, or just a crime committed in the heat of passion. Or–“ 

“How many more ‘or’s are there?” To John, Greg looks a bit overwhelmed. 

“Just one more, obvious.”

“Well?” The DI prompts and Sherlock rolls his eyes, probably at their minuscule intellect. 

“Or whoever collected the organ needs it for some kind of ritual.”

Anderson snorts. “What kind of ritual would I need a matrix for?”

“Your mind, Anderson, must be a relaxing place.” Before the man has a chance to reply, Sherlock explains, “There are several cults, spiritual communities or religions that worship a Mother goddess, even here in London. Some ancient rituals required the sacrifice of humans or human organs, and the fact that the murderer removed the matrix, while the victim was still conscious, makes my last theory most likely. Especially since the Omega was approaching his heat cycle, which corresponds with the requirements of some fertility rituals. If this man was murdered because someone wanted to sacrifice matrixes to a goddess, there will be more bodies. I would imagine even magic can only trap the matrix’s energy for so long,” he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm and already on his way out the door. 

When he passes a revolted looking Anderson, Sherlock’s blue eyes survey him briefly before he smirks. 

“She won’t agree to the date.”

Following Sherlock out of the door and into the hallway, John shoots the man an apologetic look but knows better than to hope that Anderson will convince Donovan to go on a date with him. Sherlock’s been right on every account when it comes to their affair – much to both of the Beta’s chagrin. And their colleagues’ amusement. 

*

As soon as they have left the housing facility, Sherlock makes a beeline for a homeless woman at a corner, passing her a twenty pound note that holds a small slip of paper John has seen Sherlock write on the way outside. 

The homeless network never ceases to amaze John. 

Only thirty minutes after getting back to Baker Street, though, where Sherlock is playing his fiddle to think and John researches Mother goddess and fertility rites, they receive a call from Greg. 

There are two more bodies. 

*

That night, Sherlock is pacing the living room with John watching him from the sofa, laptop balancing on his knees. 

The homeless network knew of three religious cults that follow the Mother goddess in one way or another; yet none has ever been known for their violence. “That’s the point,” Sherlock sneered, “they’re all one with nature and at peace with themselves.”

Their killer must be an Omega, since only Omegas are allowed into the housing facilities, a rule intended to protect the inhabitants from Alphas or Betas discontent with the new status quo. Besides, the security footage of both houses proves there was no unauthorised entry. 

And other than the cloth used to gag the third victim, which belonged to the killer and not the murdered Omegas like the scarf and neckerchief, they have no further clues. Or rather, John has no further clues, Sherlock keeps muttering about the circles the victims travelled in and how they are nowhere near spiritual groups. 

“But the killer must have known them, or he couldn’t have known where they lived or that their next heat cycle was approaching,” Sherlock says, turning around and resuming his pacing. 

Suddenly, John remembers Vinette. 

“We need to know more about the lives of Omegas who live in the housing complexes.”

“You suggest we simply ask the next best resident?”

“No, I happen to have a contact.”

Sherlock takes one look at him and nods. “When did you meet them again?”

“At the supermarket. I found her on my last rescue mission before your kidnapping, by the way.”

They share a wordless smile, remembering their first encounter and everything it led to, before John shuts the computer, grabs his jacket and follows Sherlock down the stairs.

*

Vinette proves to be quite helpful, despite them keeping her form her work. 

“Well, there are a lot of activities we‘re organising. Game nights, movie screenings –“

“Movie screenings?“ John asks, astonished. 

“The housing facilities come with TVs,“ Vinette explains. “We also have discussion and self-help groups.“

“Do you talk about your heat cycles?“ Sherlock Holmes, blunt as ever. Thankfully, Vinette doesn‘t take offence, although she blushes a little. 

“We do... It‘s not easy, spending a heat alone. So we exchange tips.“

“What about spiritual groups?“ 

“A few. But Mr Holmes, I don‘t know that much about them. I... Religion is not really for me.“

“I didn‘t ask about some catholics putting up crosses,“ Sherlock dismisses her statement and John intervenes before his flat mate becomes offensive. 

“We heard about groups who worship a Mother goddess. Mother Earth, or Nature. Have you ever heard of anything?“

Vinette furrows her brows, thinking. “A few times, perhaps. One of the women on my floor, she talks about energy flows a lot. I think she mentioned something about Mother Earth once. Oh, and she goes to some meetings, too. I just always thought it was religious. That must be one of those spiritual groups?“

Sherlock is nodding frantically. “Perfect. Can you get me in?“

“In where?“

“Into the building complex. Introduce me to that woman. I need to go to one of these meetings.“

A laugh escapes John before he can stop himself. Sherlock at a meeting of a spiritual group? He won‘t manage to investigate before they ban him from the room for his sarcastic remarks. 

Vinette doesn‘t seem phased. “Alright. Meet me at ten past eight at the back entrance.“

*

John‘s phone rings at ten thirty. 

“I know where the next murder will take place.“ Sherlock says without further ado. “There’s only one Omega going into heat soon and the murderer will probably have to conclude the ritual within 24 hours of his first matrix harvest, which gives her until shortly after midnight.“

John can infer what happened: Sherlock convinced the woman to take her to the gathering and Sherlock deduced who is at the beginning of his or her heat cycle. Finding out the potential victim’s name and room shouldn’t have been too difficult for a fellow Omega. 

“Tell Lestrade and come here. We can catch the murderer red-handed.“

*

Getting past the guards in front of the building complex proved to be more difficult, especially with two Alphas and a Beta. 

“Sirs, if you can‘t prove you have probably cause, I‘m sorry but I can‘t let you in.“

“I‘m Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. We received a tip that there will be a murder taking place in room 336.“

“I‘m sorry,“ the security guard insists emphatically, “but I have my rules. Without obvious probable cause or a warrant or any other form of legal document, I can‘t let you in.“

John reluctantly draws the only ace up his sleeve. “Sir, we appreciate your persistence. I‘m Captain John Watson and Detective Sherlock Holmes is in there right now, waiting for us to back him up on a hunt for a murderer. Please, we need you to let us through.“

The guard, a Beta with more muscle than John and Greg put together, seems hesitant at least. 

“I promise you, Mister, letting us in won‘t have repercussions. I‘ll make sure of that, you have my word.“

John tries hard for his most sincere look, holding the Beta‘s gaze for at least half a minute. 

Eventually, the guard sighs. “Alright.“

They appear to have come just in time. In the hallway to room 336, a man rushes in their direction, Sherlock at his heels. 

“Catch him!“ Sherlock shouts. The Omega turns abruptly and disappears through a door. “The victim needs a doctor!“

John, posed to follow the Omega, aims for the room Sherlock stormed out of instead. 

Sherlock passes him and John can hear Lestrade, Donovan and Sherlock going after the murderer while he pushes into room 336. 

The woman on the floor is a whimpering mess, gagged with a scarf, pressing what looks like a shirt against her bleeding stomach. 

Sherlock must have taken a moment to make her press the cloth against the wound, John muses as he takes over for the woman while he removes the scarf single-handedly as fast as he can. 

Blood is oozing from underneath the shirt – the knife must have damaged the artery. 

John whips out his mobile phone and calls for an ambulance, then shouts at the top of his lungs for help. 

*

The victim is barely alive when the medics reach the room but she clings to life and slips into a coma at the hospital. 

In what Greg describes as a highly adventurous chase, Sherlock, Donovan and he managed to get a hold of the murderer, an Omega called Maurice Stephens.

“Sherlock took one look at him and could tell us everything.“ The DI sounds amused rather than anything else. 

“Please,“ Sherlock snorts. “He was wearing a wristband with a male name on it. Those bands are regarded as Omega engagement rings since Omegas weren‘t allowed to marry until the Fall. Maurice was at the meeting I visited, alone. His fiancée Dan probably doesn‘t even know of his involvement in the group, I‘d assume, either because he doesn‘t approve or because Maurice and Dan aren‘t talking to each other that much anymore.“

“So why did Maurice kill four Omegas for their matrixes?“

“Fertility ritual, obvious.“ Sherlock snorted. “I overheard Maurice talking with another Omega about homeopathic tinctures to increase fertility, but the tone of his voice suggested that he wasn‘t really interested. Because he had found an ancient ritual which requires organ sacrifices. Obvious.“

John‘s eyes widen. “Are you saying Maurice just wanted to get pregnant really badly?“

Sherlock nods, mouth tight. “A child would have saved their relationship, at least that was Maurice‘s logic.“

To Greg, Sherlock must look judgmental but John can see the hint of sadness in Sherlock‘s eyes. Why would Sherlock be sad? 

“Where‘s Maurice now?“

“Holding cell. We‘re drawing up the charges,“ Greg explains. “He will be the first Omega trialled for murder and not simply executed.“

The fact sends a shiver down John‘s spine.

*

When they get back to Baker Street, John is seriously confused. The previous times he witnessed Sherlock in the aftermath of a successful investigation, Sherlock was always full of energy, but positive energy. Today, there is a strange edge to his excitement, something that seems to be holding him back. 

He doesn‘t, however, say anything about what‘s bothering him. Not that John expected him to. 

Inside the apartment, Sherlock basically flees to his room. There‘s no other word for it. A few moments later, John hears the now familiar sound of a violin coming through the door. 

Sherlock doesn‘t take well to being disturbed while playing the violin. 

So John makes himself a cup of tea and starts to think. 

An epiphany hits while he is sipping his third cup, glancing at the date. 

It has been a little over 15 weeks since John and Sherlock met for the first time. Which means that almost four months ago, Sherlock went off the Metamoxin. 

Metamoxin, apart from suppressing an Omega‘s scent and the heat, also serves as birth control. While on Metamoxin, an Omega can‘t get pregnant. 

More importantly: An Omega who used to take the pills, no matter for how long, needs to wait at least four months until he or she is able to conceive. 

Sherlock is worried about getting pregnant. 

John snorts, putting his cup away. Of course Sherlock would freak out at the prospect of bearing a child. His body is transport; the man can‘t even take care of himself, he wouldn‘t be willing to support another life.

So why is Sherlock so strung out about this? 

_Perhaps he thinks I want kids_ , John realises with a start. Ever since his return from Afghanistan, he hasn‘t thought he could ever have children. As First Officer of the Revolution, it just never registered as an option and he hasn‘t given it a second thought since. 

That is the moment Sherlock emerges from his room, if possible even more tense then before. 

John can‘t stand the tension in the room so he takes a deep breath and clears his throat. 

“Sherlock?“ All he gets is a non-committal noise. “I just realised that it‘s been over 15 weeks since you went off the Metamoxin. Do you need me to pick you up a pack of birth control pills from the Clinic?“

John doesn‘t doubt for one second that Sherlock will see straight through his reasoning. 

Yet when he turns to meet Sherlock‘s blue eyes, he finds them ice-cold and distant, as if he is forcing himself to keep his expression as emotionless as possible. 

It takes a long moment before Sherlock answers. “That won‘t be necessary.“

Without another word, Sherlock leaves the kitchen. For a second, John is too stunned to react, but when his mind unfreezes, he hurries after the Omega into the living room. 

“What do you mean?“

“Didn‘t you hear me? Gosh, all these explosions must have rendered you deaf.“ Sherlock‘s voice is dripping with sarcasm. John knows he‘s trying to make John lash out, throw a fit and leave, or something else that doesn‘t involve talking to Sherlock further. 

“Yes, I heard! But what does that mean?“

“That you don‘t need to procure me any pills.“

John sighs heavily. “Sherlock, you don‘t need to...“ He doesn‘t know how to finish that sentence, though. What exactly is he saying? “It‘s your body, Sherlock. You shouldn‘t make that decision likely.“

A bitter laugh escapes Sherlock‘s throat and it is so uncharacteristic of him that it throws John off. 

“My body. Yes, that‘s true.“

“I‘m sorry, I didn‘t... What I mean to say is: You can say yes to the pills. I won‘t mind.“ Sherlock narrows his eyes and John splutters. “And if you really want to not take birth control, it‘s okay, too. It‘s your body, your decision.“

Finally, Sherlock‘s mask is slipping. Yet instead of relief about how supporting John is being, Sherlock looks devastated. There is sadness etched in the lines of his face and probably without noticing it, Sherlock is drawing in on himself. 

As soon as it happened, it is gone again. Sherlock straightens, face blank, eyes distant. 

“Well, John, no matter what I decide, it won‘t make a difference.“

“Why?“ John can feel his frustration mounting. Something is going on and and it is hurting Sherlock; he needs to find out what it is. 

“I can‘t conceive.“

John releases the breath he hasn‘t realised he was holding. “Give it time. Even if you‘ve been taking the Metamoxin since you were –“

“This has nothing to do with the Metamoxin.“

“Then what is it, Sherlock! What?“ John shouldn‘t be shouting but he can‘t help it. Sherlock is hurting and the Alpha in him burns with the urge to protect, to make everything better. 

Sherlock swallows, eyes wide but looking anywhere but John. 

“I had an operation.“

“What kind of operation?“

“It left me infertile.“

“I‘m sure we can reverse it if that‘s what you want,“ John offers, lacking anything better to say, as he puts a hand on Sherlock‘s shoulder, turning the man around so that he would meet his eye. 

But Sherlock only squeezed his eyes shut. 

“It‘s irreversible.“

“I‘m sure there‘s something we can do, Sherlock –“ he starts, but Sherlock jerks away violently. 

“No, there‘s not!“ John has never heard him scream like this – desperate, hurting. John can‘t but stare at Sherlock as he takes a deep breath before saying, “They removed the matrix.“

The silence that follows is like a thick blanket over the apartment, suffocating them. 

“When?“

“I just turned thirteen.“ Beginning of puberty. When Omegas and Betas become futile. When Omegas enter their first heat. 

“But you were already taking the Metamoxin,“ John more states than asks. 

“Mycroft didn‘t want to take any chances. The pills aren‘t infallible.“

Yes, John is aware of that. Of the one per cent chance of Omegas on Metamoxin conceiving despite taking the drug. 

“Mycroft did that to you?“ 

Sherlock nods and the resignation in the movement, the meaning of it, leave John shaking with anger. 

“Why? Why did you let him? Why did your parents –“

“My parents were in favour of the operation. Their consent was needed.“

John can‘t believe what he‘s hearing. “So you‘re telling me that your brother not only forced another identity on you but also simply decided to make you undergo an unnecessary operation and your parents were okay with that?“

“YES!“ Sherlock bursts out, finally opening his eyes. “My mother never left out an opportunity to show how much she regretted having an Omega as a son. I was the black sheep of the family, John. Not only was I socially awkward and always years ahead of my peers intellectually, I also was an Omega and removing my matrix was the only possible solution to keep that dirty little family secret hidden forever.“ 

John wants to hit something. Or kill someone. Preferably Mycroft Holmes. Or Mrs Holmes. He isn‘t too picky right now. 

“I shouldn‘t even care.“ Sherlock‘s voice is barely above a whisper and John doubts he is really meant to hear it. 

“Then why do you? I thought your body was just a vessel.“ John aims for light-hearted but misses by a mile. 

John doesn‘t catch his answer. 

“Pardon?“ 

Sherlock raises his eyes, movement slow and tense as if he is forcing himself to look up and meed John‘s gaze. “Because of you.“

“Wh- Why?“ John is completely out of his depth. He is not as familiar with Sherlock‘s logic as he thought, it would seem. 

“You‘re an Alpha, John. You‘re going to want children. Children that I won‘t – and can‘t – give you.“

And it clicks. 

Slowly, John crosses the few steps that separate him from Sherlock and he draws him into a tight hug, ignoring Sherlock‘s half-hearted struggle. Sherlock Holmes can be heartless again tomorrow. 

“It‘s okay,“ John soothes, “it‘s okay. Yes, I‘m an Alpha but I don‘t want children. I‘ve just survived a civil war. I wasn‘t even sure I‘d be alive so long. You don‘t need to worry about children, okay?“

Sherlock is still tense in John‘s arms. “You will change your mind. It‘s your biological imperative to breed.“ 

John can sense what Sherlock is implying. “Sherlock, I‘m not with you because you‘re an Omega. You‘re a brilliant man, and even if you can‘t bear children, you‘ll always be brilliant. Don‘t worry about it.“ John draws back so he is whispering directly in Sherlock‘s ear. “I won‘t leave you alone, Sherlock.“

It was the right thing to say. He can feel Sherlock relax, tension gradually seeping from his body as John keeps holding him tight, rubbing soothing circles in his back. Sherlock doesn‘t cry but he starts to tremble and John draws him closer until it subsides and Sherlock buries his face in the nape of John‘s neck, inhaling deeply. 

The Alpha inside John purrs, content that his Omega isn‘t hurting anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, it‘s a harsh way to solve he whole mpreg-thing. I guess my inner aversion to mpreg steered me in that direction. So, no, there will be no pregnancy in this fic. EVER. 
> 
> Also, it might be important to note that Omegas in my AU have no special value. In other AUs, they are cherished because they can have kids. Here, normal biology still works, no matter if you‘re a female Alpha, Beta or Omega . Only male Omegas can actually bear children. Like I said- mpreg squick ;)


	2. The Solution in the Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of New Britain after the election. And the story of Sherlock and John, who chase after a serial killer who gouges his female victims’ eyes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately post-epilogue of Civil Disobedience. 
> 
> This is the chapter that gave me most grief of all. I had a case, inspired by an ACD short story, but my muse simply didn‘t want to write it. Until I realised: It‘s just too boring. Thank you, Kevin Bacon, for inspiring me one weekend and ending my problems :) (so yeah, the case is inspired by "The Following“)
> 
> Also, I didn‘t plan on writing any porn this chapter. John and Sherlock had other ideas… 
> 
> It would also be a lot more American if it weren't for [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya), who is an amazing Beta with Brit-picking superpowers :)

With unsurprising majority, the Reformist Party wins the election and - equally unsurprisingly - Homi Bhabha becomes the first Omega Prime Minister of New Britain. 

When John and Sherlock return to Baker Street after the celebration, John is thrumming with excitement. 

“You‘re happy,“ Sherlock observes as he hangs his coat.

John grins and the step forward necessary to put his jacket away brings him into Sherlock‘s personal space. 

“We have an Omega PM and you asked me to solve crimes with you. I have every reason to be happy.“

“I knew you would like that.“ Sherlock raises an eyebrow, probably aiming to appear nonchalant, but the way his eyes flicker to John‘s lips give him away. 

“Do you know what else I‘d like?“ John‘s voice is heavy with innuendo and right now, he doesn‘t even care if it‘s a clichéd line. He crowds Sherlock against the apartment door, bodies not quite touching, faces inches apart. 

Sherlock‘s eyes dilate and John can hear his breath hitch before he swallows. The movement of his adam‘s apple is distracting.

“Why don‘t you show me?“

John gradually closes the gap between their bodies, pressing their torsos together with relish. Sherlock remains still, leaves it to him where he wants to take this. 

A slow movement of his hips has Sherlock gasping and he throws his head back, exposing his pulse point and John latches onto it, tonguing it, then sucking down hard. His hands are busy with Sherlock‘s tie and shirt buttons, then pull the fabric out of Sherlock‘s suit trousers. 

John’s mouth moves lower to Sherlock‘s collarbone, biting at the bone until Sherlock‘s breath becomes ragged and John has opened the fly. 

In one swift motion, John pushes Sherlock‘s trousers and pants down at the same time, exposing his already hard cock. 

Smirking up at Sherlock‘s half open eyes, John slides down and closes his lips around the tip of Sherlock‘s glans. He tongues at the slit, knowing fully well that the action drives Sherlock crazy and this time is no exception if the whine that escapes his throat is anything to go by. 

John takes him deeper, so deep that he can feel the wet tip against the back of his throat, draws back and swallows Sherlock down again, setting a quick rhythm that has Sherlock writhing against the door, hips buckling, driving himself deeper into John‘s mouth. 

John‘s right hand wanders from where it was holding onto Sherlock‘s hips down to his balls, massaging them just the way he knows his partner likes, before he inches further back. 

Sherlock groans when the first finger enters him, immediately followed by a second and a third because John finds Sherlock already wet for him. He pushes down, burying John‘s fingers deeper inside him until they find his prostate. 

Moments later, Sherlock arches his back and cries out as his orgasm washes through him and John swallows every last drop. 

Sherlock‘s eyes are still half closed when he draws John up for a bruising kiss. Sherlock uses his height to push John down onto his back, lying half on the carpet, half on the hard wooden floor but he can‘t find it in him to care when Sherlock steps out of his shoes and trousers and throws his tie aside. He doesn‘t even bother with his shirt and jacket before he kneels over John, hands eagerly reaching for his fly. 

John‘s trousers wind up around his ankles and Sherlock moves forward, gripping John‘s cock tight. He moans as he feels the wet heat enveloping him. 

Fully sheathed, Sherlock starts moving, rotating his hips just so, again and again, quickly increasing the pace. Every sound that escapes John seems to edge him on more and John can‘t help but be amazed by how well Sherlock has figured out what makes him crazy. 

Just before John can topple over the edge into his own orgasm, Sherlock changes the angle and slows down. Belatedly, John realises that Sherlock is hard again, his heat can‘t be far off. So he sits up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him in place. If John could form any sort of coherent thought, he‘d be proud of himself for hitting Sherlock‘s prostate on the first thrust. 

John can feel the blood pooling in his knot but wills it down, remembering they‘re on the uncomfortable floor - not a place to be knotted together for half an hour. Sherlock seems to share his sentiment because he doesn‘t bear down, doesn‘t force the knot into himself like he did countless other times. Instead, Sherlock moves faster up and down John‘s cock, meeting his thrusts until they both have their eyes closed and their breathing comes in spurts. 

John‘s orgasm hits first and he clings to Sherlock like he is his lifeline, trapping his cock between their bodies. Sherlock rides John through the aftershocks, rubbing himself against John‘s abdomen, until he, too, finds release. 

They collapse next to each other on the floor, the wood hard against their lower backs. 

It only takes a minute until they notice exactly how uncomfortable their position is, and by unspoken agreement, head into the bathroom together to clean up. 

They throw their clothes over the back of the couch haphazardly before they hurry up the stairs to their bedroom, because Sherlock‘s bed still functions as a surrogate shelf for God knows what, and climb under the covers. 

Sherlock half covers John, head resting in the crook of his neck, arm thrown across his chest. The position has become so familiar, it feels like a second skin already. 

“Thanks for coming with me tonight,“ he finally says. 

“If I‘d known what‘d be waiting for me when we got home, you wouldn‘t have had to spend so much time on convincing me,“ Sherlock mumbles into John‘s skin and he can feel Sherlock smiling. 

Chuckling, John kisses Sherlock‘s hair and takes a deep breath, allowing their mixed scent to fill his lungs. 

He falls asleep with a smile.

*

Bhabha doesn‘t smile when John tells him that he is retiring to help Sherlock Holmes solve cases. 

“New Britain needs you,“ he insists, but John stands his ground. 

“The Reformists needed me. I‘m no diplomat, Bhabha, and my men are perfectly capable of handling everything from here. I‘ve bled enough during the revolution.“

“Is there anything I can say that will sway you? I‘d offer you more money but I know that‘s of no concern to you.“

“Bhabha, I like helping Sherlock. And can you really imagine me heading the Ministry of Defence some day? I need to be out in the field.“

It takes a while, but in the end, the Prime Minister agrees, though reluctantly, and only because John promised that he would help out in case of an emergency. 

*

With the official government in place, the time has come for a new legislation. 

The Bill of Rights and the Equality Act are passed three weeks after Bhabha takes over as PM, suspending the Empire‘s old constitution.

Slowly but surely, New Britain is getting on her feet, weak as they may still be. Literacy campaigns are enforced and a lot of the budged flows into the funding of Omega employment. 

The courts have their hands full with Betas who were degraded to Omega status for crimes they committed and who are now facing a fair trial. Some regain their freedom, having paid enough for their sins while others will spend a few more years in prison. 

Anti-discrimination laws look good on paper but as it turns out, not many Omegas have the means to make use of them if needs be. The government is urging all citizens to keep a watchful eye out to ensure equality the people fought so hard for. 

Of course, Sherlock is unfazed by any of this - his attention belongs to his cases, but John still follows the news, hoping that everything will work out and that the new system won‘t come crashing down around them. 

The first two months with Sherlock pass in a blur: Scotland Yard has enough investigations pending, now that Omegas can‘t be turned into convenient scapegoats anymore, requiring the reopening of several old cases. 

Sherlock and John go through as many cases as the rest of the Yard put together and in the rare moment that they‘re not busy, Sherlock swings by St Bart‘s Hospital and talks a young pathologist into giving him a few spare body parts to experiment on. 

The moment John finds a severed head in the fridge makes the list of the most scary moments of his life. And he fought in a civil war. 

*

“A severed head? What does he want with one of those?“ Greg wonders, nose turned up in disgust. He sets his beer down on the pub table again. 

“Don‘t ask me, something about coagulation? Most of his experiments are beyond me.“

Greg snorts. “Don‘t put that in your blog, though. I doubt that‘s legal.“

“The thought hadn‘t even occurred to me.“ He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“You know what you‘re gonna call your latest case?“

“No, but something with splinters, seems fitting.“ Sherlock was at his best - he identified the murderer by splinters of her nail polish he found at the scene. 

Greg takes a sip from his pint, then focuses his eyes on John again, wearing a curious expression. “So, have you and Sherlock finally had the talk?“

“What talk?“ John deflects, but knows it‘s a laughable effort when faced with a DI. 

“The one about who‘s turn it is to bake a cake for Anderson‘s birthday - come on, you know what I mean.“

“Did Judy give you an answer yet?“

The jab at his potential wife has Greg glaring. “Stop deflecting.“

“So that‘s a no? I don‘t know, I always thought if someone asked me to marry him, I wouldn‘t get over a week to think about it,“ he teases. Being around Sherlock has already sharpened John‘s deduction skills. Though in the face of his flatmate‘s mental acrobatics, his accomplishments are still nothing short of pathetic. 

“Why do you think you don‘t want to breach the subject? What‘s Sherlock gonna say? ‘Sorry, but this is just a fling after all‘?“

Seeing no way out of this conversation, John groans in frustration and buries his head in his hands.

“I don‘t know, Greg. We‘ve just never talked about any of this. Never. It‘s always been natural between us. And Sherlock doesn‘t do emotions very well. It would just be awkward.“

“If it‘s so natural, why can‘t you answer whether you two are mates or not?“

John regards the Alpha across the table, wondering how much he can give away. They‘ve been meeting semi-regularly these past weeks after the election, have become friends but John isn‘t sure how much he is allowed to give away. 

“Before we met, Sherlock didn‘t have any friends, and even then, we weren‘t _friends_ … We were a hostage and a kidnapper. We talked, yes, and I always felt drawn to him but… We weren‘t friends. We were an Alpha and an Omega. I can‘t tell you when it changed. Jesus, I guess even that first heat was intimate in a completely different way from anything I‘ve experienced before. Perhaps that‘s why I can‘t put a name to what we share - it‘s always been like this. You and Judy, you met, you got closer, you dated, but Sherlock and me - we skipped that completely.“

With a sigh, John looks up. “Did that make any sense?“

Greg barks out a laugh. “You want to know my opinion?“ John shrugs and the DI goes on. “I‘ve known Sherlock for quite some time. I‘ve seen him around Alphas, Betas, Omegas, important officials, politicians, ministers, millionaires… He‘s always distant, always wears a mask. I only ever saw him smile around dead people - until you came along.“ Greg shoots him a smile. “He‘s different with you, John. Acts like he actually does have a heart. He values your opinion and he actively seeks your company. What does it tell you when a man who never lets anyone get close makes an exception for one person?“

John ducks his head, eyes regarding his beer as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“The way I see it, you‘re both just two blokes who are crazily in love but no one‘s man enough to admit it.“ 

“So what do you suggest I do?“

“Bloody well talk to him already! You fought a civil war, one should think you could handle a conversation.“

“I don‘t want to lose him, Greg.“

“You won‘t. Trust the DI.“

Greg sounds so sure and if he‘s completely honest, John knows the truth as well, but… No but. Greg is right, John needs to talk to Sherlock about this. 

“Alright.“

Greg raises his pint. “To mates!“

John clinks glasses. “So you‘re sure Judy will say yes?“

“Shut up and drink, Watson.“ 

Just when they set down their beers and John wants to change the subject to safer matters, Greg‘s phone rings. 

The DI is grabbing his jacket before he even ends the call. 

“New case?“ John raises his eyebrows questioningly. 

“Yeah. I‘ll text you if we need you.“ Greg leaves a few bills on the table and rushes towards the doors. 

*

As it turns out, Greg really needs them. 

The cab is pulling up outside an apartment building in Chelsea, one of the nicer parts of town which actually survived the revolution unscathed for the most part, and John sighs in relief. This might be the first case in a long time that has nothing to do with a new legislation, jealous Betas or a wife whose husband decided to leave her for their former Omega slave girl who now is a citizen with full rights. 

Greg meets them outside one of the spacious apartments at the blue and white police tape. His expression doesn‘t bode well. 

“I take it the victim is young, either Alpha or Beta, and has been murdered in a brutal way,“ Sherlock says before Greg has the chance to open his mouth. 

The DI nods curtly. “Annie Wilson, 20, second year at college. The rest you better see for yourselves…“ He holds the tape up for them to pass through and John follows Sherlock into the flat. 

They find Annie Wilson in the living room, splayed out on the sofa. Her killer must have arranged her pose, for her arms are lying next to her and there is no way a girl who has her eyes gouged out wouldn‘t thrash wildly about before dying. 

She‘s also been eviscerated, her intestines flowing out of her stomach and onto the ground. The smell almost makes John gag.

Sherlock is already right next to the body, standing between sofa and coffee table, considering the girl with cool-eyed detachment. 

“She has been dead for a few hours, putting the murder sometime between four and seven pm,“ Sherlock starts, eyes darting around the room. “No forced entry suggests she knew the killer, so we need to focus on her immediate circle.“

“What do you think the eyes mean?“ John asks, stepping closer. He can sense Annie‘s smell underneath the odour of decay. She was an Alpha. 

“I suppose it fits the rest of her wounds,“ Greg cuts in. “The killer was brutal.“

“Not necessarily. If the killer used the same weapon for both the abdominal wound and the eyes, you might be right, but I have a theory that the weapons won‘t match.“ 

Sherlock is moving around the room now, John realises he is following Annie Wilson‘s line of sight but apparently she is simply staring into the distance, eyes focussed on somewhere on the ceiling. 

“I will call you as soon as forensic has had a look.“ Greg runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. “In the meantime I will send you a list of her closest friends we found on her laptop. I‘d like to announce we solved this at tomorrow‘s press conference.“

Sherlock is still lost in thought so John nods in his stead, watching the DI as he produces his phone and pushes a few buttons. 

Seconds later, Sherlock‘s mobile chimes and John retrieves it from the other man‘s pocket without hesitation. 

“We‘ll get started right away. Sherlock?“

He snaps out of his reverie and follows John without another word. 

He is on Sherlock the moment they are in the cab. “Spit it out, what‘s your theory?“

“The eyes, it has to mean something.“

“Any idea about what exactly?“

“Several.“ He doesn‘t specify and John doesn‘t push for he knows better. 

*

It‘s almost ten when they leave Annie‘s third college friend‘s house and John‘s phone alerts him to a text message. 

“There‘s another crime scene,“ is all he needs to say before they are both hurrying to find the nearest taxi. 

*

This time, there are two young girls: Amy Shirley, 21, Beta, and Britney Paxton, 24, Beta. Annie and Amy both attended University College London while Britney went to the King‘s College. A quick check showed that several of Amy‘s and Annie‘s courses match. 

“So what role does Britney play?“ Anderson asks from his position next to the eviscerated Amy. Her eyes are gaping holes that John tries his best not to focus on. 

“The killer was aiming for Amy, of course,“ Sherlock snaps curtly, again inspecting the victim‘s line of sight from what John could tell. “When it turned out her roommate was there as well, the killer changed his plans.“

“His?“ Anderson raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“Use your senses, don‘t you smell the lingering masculine scent?“ Sherlock answers irritably and sure, when John inhales and concentrates, there it is. He can‘t tell wether it is Alpha, Beta or Omega, but it‘s definitely male. 

“Why the eyes, though?“ Sherlock mutters, more to himself than anyone else. 

“Perhaps the girls saw something they weren‘t supposed to see? A crime, maybe?“ John tries. 

“It would be a tad obvious but it‘s a possibility. Still, they knew their killer, no forced entry, they let him in. They were offering him something to drink, too.“

John follows Sherlock‘s gaze and finds a cupboard door ajar, revealing a selection of whiskey and vodka. 

Sherlock is murmuring under his breath, moving around the room, eyes gliding over the spines of books, DVDs, pictures on the walls until they return to the two victims. 

“We are looking for a man Annie and Amy knew and liked enough to invite in for a drink. A man who enjoyed killing.“

“Are you saying you think we are dealing with a serial killer?“ Greg has gone pale. John can empathize - a man on a killing spree is nothing London needs in unstable times like this.

“Only the next murder will tell,“ Sherlock concludes with a smile. 

John clears his throat and takes a step closer to his room-mate. “Sherlock, stop smiling.“

The man in question merely raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Three girls have been killed.“

“Will caring about their deaths help us catch their killer?“

“No.“

“Then I will continue not making that mistake. Come on, we have suspects to interview.“

Only slightly horrified, John shakes his head, shoots an apologetic smile in Greg‘s direction and follows Sherlock out the door. 

*

Two days pass and the best they have come up with is Matt Dahler, fellow student of Annie and Amy. 

Upon their first meeting, Sherlock deduced Matt is madly in love with a friend of Amy‘s, Jennifer Mason. The only problem was that Amy and Annie thought Matt was a veritable nutter and kept up their smear campaign for so long that Matt decided to take matters into his own hands. 

Or at least that was what the Met turned Sherlock‘s assessment of Matt‘s obsession with Jennifer Mason into. John can almost see it - Matt definitely was a bit barmy, with all the stalking and secret photo taking he was up to. But why eviscerate them? Why gouge their eyes out?

He says so much on Monday when they‘re in Baker Street, taking the first break since Annie Wilson was found, and Sherlock snorts. 

“Of course it wasn‘t Matt. When the next body turns up, Lestrade will see that as well.“

“Why are you so sure there‘s going to be a next body?“

“The killer wants his work to be seen. Why else would he put so much effort into arranging his victims? Why gouge their eyes out when it doesn‘t mean anything?“

“Perhaps he‘s hiding his true motif, tries to throw us off his real motivation by laying a false trail?“

Sherlock shakes his head and picks up his violin. “Criminals like that always miss something. There was nothing out of place with the last three victims. He has no hidden agenda.“

He lifts the violin and starts to play. 

*

Tuesday starts way too early with way too much blood involved. All of it belongs to Molly Lipton, 27, and Omega attending the Imperial College London on a scholarship who has no ties to the previous victims whatsoever. She gained her freedom after the civil war and has been trying to build a life ever since.

Greg rubs his eyes and thankfully accepts the coffee John brought for him. “I really don‘t want to hold that press conference.“

“Look on the bright side,“ John tries, “perhaps someone will come to you with a clue.“

“How will someone know anything when even Sherlock can‘t find the killer?“ 

John has no answer for him. 

*

Sherlock is becoming more and more frustrated with every suspect that provides a bulletproof alibi. 

Things go from bad to worse when they find two more victims in quick succession on Thursday night and Friday morning, one of them is student Jennifer Mason, Beta. With Matt Dahler still in custody they now officially have no prime suspect. 

Louise Mead, Alpha, 32, is a yoga instructor and doesn‘t fit into the pattern just like Molly Lipton did. 

“So what, is he just picking girls at random?“ John feels the desire to hit something and he doesn‘t know how many more eviscerated girls with empty eye sockets it will take to break what is left of his self-control. 

“There has to be a connection!“ Sherlock shouts, frustration prominent in his tone. He hasn‘t been sleeping these past days and John can see the dark circles under his eyes. 

“The solution has to be the eyes,“ John insists, knowing fully well that they have considered thousand possible angles already. There was nothing lodged in the victims‘ eyes, they weren‘t looking at anything, their computers and phones were all intact with nothing erased, the weapon used on the eyes never varied…

“It is and I know I‘m this close,“ Sherlock hisses, head in his hands. “This close! The killer is taunting us. Showing off. Either he will get sloppy or he will add another clue. He wants to be appreciated for his work.“

“And what if he decides we need to figure it out by ourselves? What then?“

“Then we will figure it out.“

There‘s no sleep that night either, for both of them. John has failed to coax Sherlock into bed with him, not even offering to blow him worked. 

“How can you think of sex when there‘s an unsolved case?“ Sherlock snarled at him, batting his hands away. 

“Well, if you want to stay up all night, please. I‘m getting some rest. Perhaps if we both were able to think more clearly, we‘d have a new theory already.“

“My thinking is fine,“ Sherlock snapped back and threw himself into the armchair while John made his way up to bed. 

But sleep escapes him - instead his mind is turning over every crime scene in his head, every suspect, every possible motif and murder weapon, again and again until the sun rises on Monday and John surrenders. 

*

It is already noon when her cleaning lady finally discovers the seventh victim. John‘s heart doesn‘t even jump anymore when he sees Greg‘s caller ID. 

The smell of decomposing flesh is also something he has become used to again, months after the civil war has ended, 

“Debra Torres,“ Greg begins when Sherlock and he have gathered around the whirlpool. The water is red with the young woman‘s blood. Her intestines are swimming close to the surface. The blood that flowed from her empty eye sockets has long since dried on her cheeks. “23, Alpha, attended University College London. We‘re checking which of her classes matched those of Annie and Amy. She‘s been dead at least twelve hours.“

“And she‘s propped up in a pool,“ Anderson points out.

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious,“ Sherlock drawls but John can see a spark in his blue eyes. This is new, this is interesting, this is what they‘ve been waiting for. 

“Well, what does it mean?“ Anderson asks defiantly, crossing his gloved arms in front of his chest. 

“He is playing with us. The whirlpool is a clue. First the eyes, then the whirlpool…“

“What is a bloody whirlpool supposed to stand for?“ Anderson asks, but Greg doesn‘t wait for answer. 

“I don‘t really care, we need a new lead, Sherlock, or the-“

“EVERYONE QUIET!“ Sherlock bellows and the room falls silent. John has to suppress a chuckle at how Sherlock, the Omega, is intimidating a room full of Alphas and Betas rather successfully. “Let. Me. Think,“ Sherlock grinds out, massaging his temples. 

The tense silence that follows is one of the most uncomfortable ones John has ever experienced. Anyone hardly dares to breathe. 

Then, startling them the movement is so abrupt, Sherlock‘s head snaps up, eyes wide, mouth open in realisation. 

“Poe.“

Everyone looks questioningly at Sherlock, then at John, who equally has no idea what his flatmate is talking about. 

Sherlock surveys the room, takes in their blank expressions and sighs. It must be really nice inside his head, John wonders and not for the first time. 

“Edgar Allan Poe! Eyes were a recurring symbol, as was a whirlpool. Poe believed the eyes to be the window into one‘s soul. In ‘ _MS Found in a Bottle_ ‘, the whirlpool symbolises insanity. Books of Poe were in Annie Wilson‘s, Amy Shirley‘s and Jennifer Mason‘s apartments.“ 

Stunned silence ensues. John is the first to break it. 

“So what does this mean for our killer?“

Sherlock takes a deep breath before answering. “I don‘t know. We need to find a Poe expert.“

Before Greg or anyone else has a chance to say anything, Sherlock is out of the room, John at his heels.


	3. Art unfinished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John seek out Claire Caroll, professor at University College London, for information on Edgar Allan Poe and the symbolism of the serial killings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I‘m not an expert on Poe, I used criticism regarding The Following voiced by Penn State professor Richard Kopley in an interview. This again proves that we shouldn‘t believe everything television tells us ;) 
> 
> Again, I didn‘t really plan any porn. But stake-outs are boring.... and we can't have boring, can we?

It is still early afternoon when they ascend the steps leading into the University College London building, Greek pillars towering over them. John can see the traces left by the civil war - bullet holes, blackened spots on the stone from where bombs or grenades went off and dark shadows on the stone floor under their shoes where people bled out and the blood hasn‘t been washed off entirely. 

Their target is Claire Caroll, professor for English literature. Luckily, they find her in her office, where she is packing up worksheets and a laptop, presumably for her next class. 

Objectively speaking, John can describe her as beautiful with her long, full hair framing a delicate face with high cheekbones.

Sherlock raps his knuckles against the door frame, causing her to look up. Her eyes widen when she sees them and John sighs inwardly. It was very likely that a professor at the university whose students played an important role in the revolution would recognise him. 

“Can I help you?“ she asks, zipping her bag closed. 

“I‘m Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson.“ 

“My pleasure! What can I do for you?“

“We need information on Edgar Allan Poe, his works, symbols and literary theory.“

The question obviously startles her, but she catches herself quickly.  
“Well, I guess you have the wrong professor.“

“I‘m sorry, but you are Professor Caroll, aren‘t you?“ John asks, slightly confused. 

She nods and smiles. “I am. I‘m also teaching English literature, but I‘m not an expert on Poe. My husband is.“

“Oh, well, can you tell us where we will find him?“ Sherlock asks in his most polite tone.

“On Mondays he meets a colleague for coffee after lunch at the small coffee shop across campus. You should still catch him, watch out for his tweed jacket.“

Sherlock is already turning around and leaving her office, but John gives her a smile and a sincere “Thanks“ before hurrying after the detective. 

When he catches up with Sherlock, he looks thoughtful. John knows this expression - a theory is forming. 

“What is it?“

“Her husband. A man. Who is the expert on Edgar Allan Poe.“

“What are you saying?“

“That we might be meeting our new prime suspect.“

*

Professor Caroll, the man this time, is probably in his thirties, with short brown hair, a light stubble and a beige tweed jacket. He is coming out of the coffee shop at the same time Sherlock and John reach it and they almost collide in the doorway. 

“Pardon,“ Caroll says and turns to leave.

“Professor Caroll?“ John asks because Sherlock doesn‘t give any signs of speaking up soon. His eyes are focussed on the man adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. 

“That‘s me.“

“Your wife said we would find you here, I‘m -“

“John Watson, it‘s an honour.“ Caroll extends his hands and John shakes his, noting the firmness of his grip. “And Sherlock Holmes. I‘m a huge fan.“

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn‘t extend his hand to meet the one Caroll offered. Caroll drops it without looking too put out.

“Indeed?“

“Yes, I follow your blog, Mr Watson, ever since you left the Reformist forces.“

“I‘m glad to hear it.“

“So, to what do I owe this visit? You said my wife sent you?“

“Yes,“ John begins, “we were hoping to pick your brain on Edgar Allan Poe.“

Caroll‘s face splits into a huge grin.  
“Of course! I‘d relish the opportunity. But if I start now I will talk incessantly and unfortunately, I have a prior engagement. What is this about?“

“A murder investigation,“ John says, watching the man‘s face closely but he doesn‘t react in any suspicious way. 

“Oh, yes. The murders. I‘ve read about it in the papers, poor girls. Well, I‘d be glad to help the great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Why don‘t you come over for a drink tonight? I teach until six, but after that I‘m free.“

John and Sherlock exchange a look and John nods. “Do you have a card?“

“Of course, hang on…“ Caroll rummages in his jacket pockets and produces a small silver case which holds business cards of which he hands John one. “Just call me when you‘re about to come and I will give you the address.“

“Thank you.“ John accepts the card and waves after Caroll who is making his way across the street with a steady pace. 

John directs a questioning glance at Sherlock, as if to ask if the man is a serial killer. 

Sherlock gazes after him, eyes narrowed. “He is interesting,“ is all he says.

*

John has a plan: Research David Caroll on the internet the moment they get home. Sherlock and he, however, haven‘t even hung their coats when Greg calls. 

“Any leads?“ Greg‘s voice is tight, the question rushed.

“Perhaps. We‘re meeting the Poe expert tonight after he finishes his lectures,“ John says, uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. “Any news on your end?“

“We found another body.“

One look at Sherlock is enough for the detective to retrieve his coat and lead the way out of the apartment. 

*

Another Omega, another pair of gouged out eyes, another pile of intestines draped over the victim. 

Veronica Martin is lying on the floor this time, however, head turned towards the wall that holds a bookshelf. Of course they find one of Poe‘ publications. 

“Something is off,“ Sherlock announces as soon as they have entered the crime scene. The fact that he doesn‘t wait in the far-off chance anyone else has seen the answer says all about how desperate he is to find the killer. 

“First, she is displayed on the floor, every other victim was either sitting or lying on respectively in something. Second, she is pointing out the bookshelf containing a work of Edgar Allan Poe, and third, this book has been placed here by the killer. He is confirming our theory. He knows which path the investigation is following and he welcomes it.“

“How do you know the book was planted?“ Greg asks, approaching the book shelf. 

“The layer of dust on the remaining books is thicker than on Poe‘s copy. Dust doesn‘t lie, dust is poetic.“

Sherlock lets the information settle as he crouches next to Veronica‘s body. 

“She took night classes at the same college as Louise Mead but was in completely different courses. Other than that, there are no obvious connections between her and the other victims.“

Something catches John‘s eye - a bruise on Veronica‘s left arm, probably left by a hand when the killer grabbed her too tight. 

“Our killer is getting sloppy,“ John says and immediately holds everyone‘s attention. “There‘s a bruise. He handled all the other victims with a great amount of care, every murder has been very sophisticated but this time, he left a bruise.“

Sherlock smiles at him and John feels a sudden rush of pride. 

* 

They call David Caroll around seven after they had to discard several leads since they turned out to be dead ends after all. 

“So, how about you treat him like a suspect and I treat him like an informant?“ John suggests as they exit the cab in front of Caroll‘s apartment building. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I suppose that will do.“ John can see Sherlock‘s jaw working, though the detective doesn‘t say anything further. 

“What?“

“Well, I believe you will get along with Professor Caroll rather splendidly. Don‘t let it cloud your judgement.“

“I won‘t.“

With a clearly dubious look, Sherlock rings the doorbell. Caroll buzzes them in and welcomes them at his door on the second floor, wearing a jumper to his cotton trousers. John can see the tweet jacket on the coat rack in the entrance hall 

“Good to see you, come on in.“ Caroll leads them into the flat which is an odd blend of books and children‘s toys. “It‘s just you and me tonight, Claire is out with the little one. Can I get you a drink?“

“No, I‘m fine,“ Sherlock replies. 

“Well, if you‘re offering?“ John sees Sherlock‘s lips twitch. 

Caroll fetches them both a beer while Sherlock unfolds the crime scene photos on the living room table. 

Caroll stares, eyes wide, and swallows hard. “Oh my god. This is a moment where it all becomes very real.“

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the professor. “Your wife mentioned you‘re the expert on Edgar Allan Poe.“

Caroll is rather pale when he manages to tear his eyes away from the pictures. “Yes. But what makes you think your killer has a greater literary purpose?“

“The sophistication to the murders, the way the bodies are handled and displayed, there‘s a… romance to it,“ Sherlock says, voice soft and probing, hoping for a reaction. John doubts Caroll can tell that Sherlock suspects him, the way the man seems shocked by the blood and gore. 

Caroll shuts his eyes briefly and shakes himself a little. “Poe‘s eye allegory would certainly fit. You‘ll find his symbolism full of romance…“ He looks around, spots a book on one of the shelves surrounding the table, pulls it off and hands it to them. “Here.“

To John‘s astonishment, Sherlock accepts it. “Great, thanks a lot. We‘ll get this right back to you.“

“Oh no, don‘t you dare, this is for you. This is a treat for me. Helping the great Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson? Now please, may I offer you a drink?“

“Alright, whatever you‘re drinking.“ Only John can see the calculation in Sherlock‘s eyes. 

Caroll produces another beer for Sherlock, then a thought seems to hit him.  
“I have something else for you, one moment.“

Caroll disappears through a door while John exchanges a slightly worried glance with Sherlock. John‘s hand darts to his Sig hidden underneath his jacket. 

Yet Caroll doesn‘t come back holding a knife, but a book. “I‘m an author, too. This was inspired by Poe‘s unfinished work _The Light-House_. Wait, I‘ll sign it for you.“

John managed to catch the title - _The Gothic Sea_. He has never heard of this book, however he hasn‘t been following the bestseller lists that closely either. 

Sherlock smiles in what John identifies as fake-gratitude. “Thanks a lot, I‘ll read it right away.“

“Feel free to hate it. Everyone else has.“

“It‘s not doing well?“ John chimes in. 

“Actually that‘s the third copy,“ Caroll explains with an air of bitterness. 

“I could give you a twenty or something?“ John suggests which makes the professor laugh. 

They fall into comfortable small talk. Sherlock was right - John actually has a good time talking to Caroll - “Please, call me David“ - while Sherlock skims through the pages of The Gothic Sea. 

“How many lectures do you give a week?“ John asks at one point and the smirk playing around Sherlock‘s lips tells him the detective knows exactly that John is asking for an alibi. 

David provides them with his entire schedule, which unfortunately gives him an alibi for most of the murders, especially their last case, since Caroll teaches Monday mornings from ten to twelve, the exact time Veronica Martin was killed. 

“We really appreciate your help, David,“ John says when they decide to call it a night. 

“If nothing else, it‘s good beer.“

“It‘s great beer,“ John concedes, then goes out on a hunch and adds, “We‘ve been working on this case non-stop. Sometimes we just forget to stop and turn it off for a few hours.“

John may not be able to see Sherlock‘s expression, but he is sure the detective is rolling his eyes since Sherlock never forgets. He just chooses not to. 

“I couldn‘t turn it off either if I were you.“ Caroll sighs. “Must be hard. At least you are working together, so it doesn‘t get quite that lonely. But the pay-off. Helping people, saving lives… I think what you do is quite remarkable.“

John‘s answering smile is wide and genuine. “Thank you. It‘s nice to be appreciated.“

“Take care.“ 

Sherlock nods and follows John out of the flat and into the street. 

“So, what‘s your verdict?“ John dares with a glance at the detective. 

“He seems too fascinated with the Romantic Period and especially Poe. I‘ll know more once I‘ve had a closer look at his book. A person‘s way of writing can give you great insight into their mind.“

Smirking, John raises an eyebrow. “Do you analyse my blog in the same way?“

“Perhaps.“ But Sherlock‘s tone is light, so whatever he infers from John‘s style didn‘t tell him anything he hadn‘t already known. 

*

At Baker Street, Sherlock sends John off to bed, alone. Sherlock never sleeps much on a case and not at all while there is a serial killer on the loose he might be inches away from catching. 

He huddles into the sofa, allows the scent of the flat to drown him comfortably without analysing his actions further - he is busy reading Caroll‘s “masterpiece“. 

It doesn‘t take five pages for Sherlock to know exactly why the book flopped. 

Apart from his abysmal writing style, he also interprets Poe wrong. Still, Sherlock manages to mostly finish the book before his body gets the better of him and he drifts off into a deep sleep despite his agitation. 

It‘s the smell of breakfast that wakes him. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,“ John quips from the kitchen doorway. “I‘m glad to see reading David‘s book has such an effect on you. Although I doubt it says much in favour of the book.“

“You are quite right in that regard.“  
Sherlock stretches and tries to loosen his stiff neck. He wanders into the kitchen where John gently but pointedly shoves him into a chair at the table where a cup of hot tea is already waiting. 

“Eat,“ John commands and it sounds so much like the voice he used as Captain Watson that it sends a shiver down Sherlock‘s spine. 

Bugger. His heat must be approaching. 

All the more reason to solve this crime quickly. 

“So, what did _The Gothic Sea_ tell us?“ John asks after he put away their dishes. 

“That Caroll shouldn‘t teach about things he has no knowledge of.“

“Criticising the expert, are we?“

“Please. I had a classical education, we spent weeks on Poe and nowhere did he say anything about the insanity of art and that art had to be felt by the artist and what other rubbish Caroll wants his students to believe.“

John doesn‘t even answer, only looks at him in a way that reminds Sherlock that not everyone shares his intellect and, in this case, his educational background.

“Poe‘s writing was complex, thoughtfully crafted; by no means insane. Yes, the eyes and the whirlpool were symbols he used, but our serial killer treats his violence as a work of art in itself. Like Caroll argues, the killer believes there is insanity in art and his own form of artistic expression centres on depravity and gratuitous violence. Poe believed that art could elevate the soul and yes, he wrote about dead women and girls, but one needs to take his life history into account!“ 

John is still listening, so Sherlock barges on, allowing his annoyance to spill into his voice. “Poe‘s mother died when he was two years and ten months old; a best friend‘s mother died when he was 12; from the age of 33 to 38, he was watching his wife slowly die from tuberculosis. Enduring death and the dying of the woman he loved was a fact of life for Poe, his art a way of honouring grief and the pain that comes with loss. Caroll has it all wrong.“

John stares at him, mouth agape, for half a minute. “Why do you know things like this?“

“I make it my business to know everything of import.“

The Alpha smirks at that. “Then tell me, does the earth move around the sun or vice versa?“

Sherlock groans and rises from his chair to escape into the living room. That bloody argument about the solar system. Things like that aren‘t important to him, why does John have to make such a fuss about planetary constellations?

“Alright, sorry, that was mean,“ John apologises, following him. “So are you saying Caroll is our madman with an obsession about Romantic literature?“

“Obvious.“

“He has alibis for half the murders. And even I can deduce our serial killer isn‘t working with an accomplice.“ 

Ah, yes. The issue of the alibis. There has to be a way around that. 

“I‘m working on it.“

That exact moment, his mobile phone rings. The caller ID reads “Lestrade“. 

*

The eighth crime scene with the ninth victim is a mess - John has seen war zones that were more organised. 

Apparently someone tipped off the press, who are having a feast as it is with a serial killer going around and now are crowding the blue and white tape to one of the Omega building complexes. 

John pulls Sherlock‘s phone out of his coat and dials Greg‘s number. 

The DI picks up on the second ring. “Are you there yet?“

“Yes, but we can‘t get through the reporters. I guess you don‘t want them to see us.“

Greg sighs on the other end. “There‘s a back entrance. I‘ll come get you.“

“Worried that Donovan won‘t let us in?“

“You maybe, but Sherlock would definitely have to stay outside.“

John chuckles and tells Sherlock about their change of plans. At the back entrance, Greg waits and the guards let them in without problems. 

“Tell me,“ Sherlock orders, falling into step with the DI. 

“Cordelia Gabriels, 26, Omega. Was attending Imperial College on scholarship like Molly Lipton, but they didn‘t share many classes. Evidence in Cordelia Gabriels‘ room suggests she wanted to become a vet.“

“Forced entry?“ John inquires, though he fears he already knows the answer. 

“Same as always, knew the attacker. That‘s part of the reason everyone‘s going round the bend. If it‘s someone you know, then who‘s to say it‘s not your best friend?“

They have reached the small room Cordelia Gabriels occupied, directly next to the public bathrooms of her floor. 

“Any witnesses?“ 

Greg shakes his head as his eyes follow Sherlock who is already inspecting the room, leaving John access to the body. 

“She hasn‘t been dead long.“ 

“We estimate time of death around eight am,“ Anderson informs him curtly. 

John and Sherlock exchange a meaningful glance. David Caroll gives lectures on Tuesday mornings from eight to twelve and is always half an hour early. 

With nothing else to do, John inspects every inch of the victim‘s body. He sees burn marks on her forearms, probably left by a cruel Alpha once. They look like they are from cigars. 

Cordelia is wearing a short skirt and a blouse whose top three buttons are open, exposing more of her cleavage John would deem proper for a college student on scholarship. Her legs are spread, her black tights ripped at places, exposing scarred skin underneath. The entire display has a truly sexual overtone and it makes John shiver uncomfortably. 

Most of her torso is covered in blood from the abdominal wound but something catches his eye. 

A small puncture wound in the crook of her elbow, as if from a needle. There is only one, suggesting she wasn‘t an addict of some kind. 

“Sherlock?“ he calls and moments later, the Omega is standing next to him. “This looks like the mark of an injection.“

“Interesting.“ 

When Sherlock goes quiet, John glances up and finds the detective staring into nothing, hands moving with jerky motions, mumbling under his breath. His mind palace. 

John knows better than to move and break his concentration so he inspects the corpse further. Her neck, where it isn‘t covered in blood, bears scars as well - she probably was equipped with a low-quality collar. If one tugged too hard on it for too often, it would cut the flesh repeatedly and the poor sanitary conditions most Omegas had to endure during slavery did the rest to prevent wounds from healing. 

“Proferroxin.“ 

Startled, John rises from his crouched position to shoot his flatmate a questioning look. 

Sherlock sighs when faced with too many unknowing expressions, then explains. “Proferroxin is a drug used in taxidermy, the art of preparing dead animals while preserving their bodies. Proferroxin delays the symptoms of decomposition. The use on human bodies is forbidden, obvious, but it has a similar effect.“

The extent of this realisation hits John like a blunt weapon to the head. “You mean our killer could have murdered his victims before the official time of death?“

Sherlock nods. “You need to test all the victims for the drug immediately,“ he tells Lestrade and makes to leave, almost bumping into the DI. 

“Where are you going?“ Greg looks more than a little overwhelmed. John feels for him but he knows that they need to move, now. 

“We‘re tailing a suspect,“ he explains and hurries to catch up with his flatmate. “We are going to follow David Caroll, aren‘t we?“

“Obvious.“ 

“Brilliant. Because stake-outs are usually so exciting.“

*

As it turns out, John‘s feeling was correct. Shadowing David Caroll has to be the most tedious task he has ever undertaken, including manning an observation tower in Afghanistan. At least there he was allowed to shoot scorpions. 

They “borrowed“ Greg‘s car - that is, Sherlock stole his keys when he left the crime scene, so John sends the DI an apologetic text message when he finds out. 

Their mission turns up nothing on Tuesday; sitting in the car for so long only makes John itch. Thus he is the one always making runs for tea and food, occasionally simply stretching his legs. 

He hopes that they catch Caroll soon, he really wants to get back to training Lubitsch and the rest of his former soldiers - a job that Bhabha persuaded him to fulfil as often as he can fit it into his schedule between cases. John isn‘t complaining. It allows him to keep in touch with his comrades and keeps his body in shape. 

Now that is the benefit even Sherlock values. 

John returns from an actual coffee run around eleven thirty at night. The lights in Carol‘s apartment are still on.

“Nothing of importance to report,“ Sherlock tells him, obviously bored. He has already inspected Greg‘s glove compartment and made a series of deductions John would rather die than reveal to the DI. Other than that, there is nothing to do and Sherlock doesn‘t cope well with boredom. 

He then has gone through every detail of every crime scene in the hope to discover anything they have previously missed. 

Around seven Greg called to confirm the use of Proferroxin on five of the nine victims. 

“We could try to sleep, I doubt he will commit any crime before six am since you said the drug only delays death by two to three hours.“

“I‘m not tired.“

“Suit yourself,“ John says with a deep fondness in his voice as he tries to get comfortable in the passenger seat. 

An enticing smell wakes him and a look at the clock tells him he slept for about an hour. Inhaling deeply he has no trouble identifying the spicy-sweet smell in the air. 

Sensing John is awake probably, Sherlock shifts in the driver‘s seat. 

“This makes no sense,“ he complains, “my heat isn‘t due until next week!“

The detective sounds highly annoyed and John can understand him. Until now, Sherlock‘s heats have never coincided with the peak of one of their investigations. 

“Extreme stress can cause the cycle to start prematurely,“ John supplies, shifting his body so he is facing Sherlock. “How can I help?“ 

“There will be no helping, John, we are on a case.“

“We‘re on a boring stake-out where the most interesting thing happening is a neighbour walking his dog. Caroll is asleep.“

“But we can‘t miss when he leaves the house. Could you live with yourself knowing that another woman died?“

John can‘t but snort at that. “Don‘t pretend it‘s about the victims. You just want to catch him.“

“You do, too.“

“Yes, but we won‘t if you can‘t think straight because all your blood has left your brain in favour of your groin.“ John pointedly glances at the bulge in Sherlock‘s trousers. 

“No. It‘s not necessary.“

John sighs. He knows a lost battle when he sees one, and Sherlock will come around when his biology takes over most of his higher brain functions in which case John will be there for him in whatever way Sherlock wants him. 

*

He doesn‘t have to wait long. Thirty minutes later, Sherlock can‘t keep still although he tries to force his body to obey him, and the way he is writhing on the car seat, probably already dripping, is particularly filthy and shouldn‘t turn John on as much as it does. 

The smell of an Alpha‘s arousal is too much and with a groan, Sherlock turns his head to look into John‘s eyes. 

“Make it quick.“

Treating it as a challenge, John tells Sherlock to climb into the back seat where they have more space - not particularly much but it will have to do. 

Swiftly, John opens Sherlock‘s fly and pulls down trousers and pants, exposing Sherlock‘s hard and leaking cock. John doesn‘t wait more than a second before he closes his mouth over the glans and sucks down, hard and fast, building a ruthless rhythm. He forgoes Sherlock‘s balls and uses the hand not holding his shaft to circle Sherlock‘s hole that is already wet, just like John predicted. 

They haven‘t had sex since the murders started, so John starts with two fingers and quickly has Sherlock ready to take another one. He works them in and out, alternately stroking his prostate and pushing past it while swallowing down all of Sherlock he can handle. 

Sherlock is writhing, biting down on his hands to muffle the sounds that spill from his throat. When John deep-throats, however, Sherlock cries out sharply before he manages to clam two hands over his mouth. 

John would smirk maliciously if he didn‘t have his mouth full of Sherlock‘s heavy cock. He wants to test Sherlock‘s restraint so he engulfs his length again until he can feel the tip hit the back of his throat but he still takes Sherlock in further. 

He swallows around him at the exact moments his fingers find Sherlock‘s prostate and Sherlock‘s hips jerk once, twice and then he is shouting John‘s name as he literally comes down his throat. 

Moments pass with only their heavy breathing filling the car. John‘s own erection is almost painful underneath the fabric of his trousers but it can wait. Knowing Sherlock, he will need at least two more rounds before his heat is sated.

Not even ten minutes pass before he feels Sherlock‘s hands at his fly, opening it and tugging at the fabric. 

A glance confirms Sherlock is hard again and John pushes his trousers and pants down until they reach his ankles, then toes off his shoes and strips completely. 

When he focuses on Sherlock again, he finds the Omega on his fours, probably not even aware how he is presenting his arse, perineum glistening in the light from a street lamp outside the car window. 

John stifles a groan and takes the invitation, sliding in with one quick thrust. 

Sherlock pushes back, urging him on and he understands - make it fast is still the top priority. 

So John wanks Sherlock‘s cock with one hand while he fucks him hard into the car seat at a pace that has both of them gasping and sweating. 

Just in time, John remembers that they are in fact in Greg‘s car and he retrieves the only thing he can find - Sherlock‘s scarf - to cover the fabric of the back seat before Sherlock climaxes and spills white fluid all over it. 

The muscles around John‘s cock convulse just right, sending John over the edge with a stifled moan. 

“Is that my scarf?!“ Sherlock asks in alarm a few moments later since, as experience has taught John, Sherlock‘s brain rebounds a lot quicker from orgasm then his own. 

“It was either that or explain the stains to Greg.“

Sherlock shudders at the thought, placing the sullied scarf behind the headrest, glancing outside at the same time. 

“Their flat is still dark.“

“And you need at least one other round,“ John comments, letting his voice drop an octave lower than usual. 

Having obviously resigned himself to his body‘s biology, Sherlock chooses to crawl between John and the backrest, draping himself half over him in the process, instead of keeping watch at the window. 

John kisses him breathless, then traces Sherlock‘s jaw with his tongue, moving lower until he can tease Sherlock‘s pulse point which has the Omega hard in no time once more. 

John wants to lean up but a hand on his chest stops him. Smirking, Sherlock untangles himself from his shoes and pants at last, then swings one leg over John so he is straddling his hips, Sherlock‘s erection brushing against John‘s half-hard cock deliciously. 

Sherlock shuffles lower, one hand gripping John firmly before he licks a wet line along his shaft. John presses his mouth shut to keep the sounds in because, frankly, Sherlock gives amazing blow jobs. 

Though this time, Sherlock only wants to get him fully hard for he pulls off way too soon and John whines at the loss of the wet heat of Sherlock‘s mouth.

He doesn‘t have to wait long. In one fluid, graceful movement that never ceases to amaze John no matter how often he watches it, Sherlock lowers himself onto John‘s cock. Once he is fully sheathed, Sherlock rotates his hips sinfully slow and John has to use every ounce of self-control to keep his hips in place. 

Sherlock is beautiful like this, his lithe body shimmering with sweat, nipples hard and John stretches out his hands to tease them between his fingers. It is mean, he knows, for this is one of Sherlock‘s many erogenous zones and within a few minutes Sherlock is grinding down at a strong rhythm, moving his hips just so. 

The strain of holding his body up becomes too much then and John slumps back into the seat. He adjusts his hips slightly, brushing against Sherlock‘s prostate and Sherlock immediately covers his mouth with a hand. 

John has to close his eyes, the friction is increasing as Sherlock‘s movements become erratic and John bites the inside of his cheek to keep him from moaning as he feels a familiar heat pool in his groin. 

It takes effort to will his knot down this time - the Alpha in him senses his Omega is in heat and wants to lock their bodies together, but John can only imagine the way Sherlock would complain. 

The small distraction turns his orgasm into a surprise and he comes so hard his vision blurs for a moment. Sherlock rides him through the aftershocks, working himself hard on John‘s cock, until he topples over the edge, too and coats John‘s chest with long, white spurts. 

Sherlock all but collapses onto him, his body moulding itself into John‘s side as always, this time careful to avoid the mess on John‘s chest and abs. 

“We should get a car,“ Sherlock says, somewhat non sequitur. 

“We don‘t need a car.“ John raises an eyebrow but Sherlock‘s clever expression is enough to make the other shoe drop. John laughs. “No, we are not buying a car just so we can have sex in it.“

“Then we need to borrow this one more often.“ 

“Greg will poison my beer the next time we‘re at the pub.“

“Not if he never finds out.“

“We‘re talking about the same Greg Lestrade here? The Detective Inspector?“

“Please, like I couldn‘t fool him.“

“Let‘s leave this a hypothetical idea.“

“An idea is always hypothetical.“

“People shouldn‘t be this smart, post-coital.“ 

“I‘m not like other people.“

“No. You aren‘t.“ John smiles and gently dips Sherlock‘s head back for a leisurely kiss, wallowing in the smell of sex and satisfaction.

*

Sherlock shakes him awake at six thirty in the morning. 

“Caroll is on the move,“ is all he says before he starts the car. John is glad he made the effort of getting dressed at some point during the night. 

He can discern the professor‘s figure in the distance as the man gets into his car. Sherlock follows him at a safe distance, brilliantly navigating the traffic as to not arise Caroll‘s suspicion, through London. 

They aren‘t going to University College, that much is certain. 

Sherlock and he exchange a meaningful look when Caroll pulls into a parking slot at King‘s College campus housing. John rummages in the glove compartment and throws Greg‘s Met parking permit behind the windscreen and follows Sherlock out of the car. 

John‘s hand immediately darts to his gun and stays there, not wanting to take the chance that Caroll has spotted them and decides to lay a trap. 

Sherlock raises a fist before they round a corner and out of reflex, John stops. 

“He entered a flat. We need to wait for a sign that he is actually hurting someone or he will be able to find a way out of this.“

John nods and they proceed to the door of flat 2-41, listening for the smallest sound. 

Sherlock actually has his ear pressed against the door. “They are talking. Three voices. His victim has a roommate.“ 

A few quiet moments pass, then a high pitched scream pierces the silence and Sherlock tries the door knob but it won‘t give. 

“Step away,“ John shouts and his foot hits the door the second Sherlock is out of the way. The door breaks at the first try and Sherlock slips into the flat before John can enter, Sig raised. 

John sees Sherlock glance at the brunette Beta who lies on the living room floor, eviscerated with much more force than the previous victims, but the detective follows the sounds of fighting into the kitchen. 

A quick check confirms that the Beta‘s heart has stopped beating, then John proceeds into the kitchen where Sherlock is currently pulling David Caroll off a blonde woman who is clutching her bleeding arm. 

Caroll has a knife which he tries to hurt Sherlock with, yet thankfully, Sherlock is versed in hand-to-hand-combat and manages to deflect every jab. Sherlock‘s back is to John, so he can‘t get a clear shot at Caroll but within a split second, Caroll wheels Sherlock around, raising the knife. 

Sherlock is caught off balance and the moment he needs to regain his footing is enough for Caroll to sink the knife into his right side. 

John pulls the trigger the very first second he can, but it‘s still too late. 

Caroll screams in pain, then topples to the ground, revealing Sherlock leaning against the kitchen counter, the knife stuck in his lower torso.

John hits Caroll over the head with the butt of his Sig to keep him unconscious before he is at Sherlock‘s side, catching him as he threatens to fall over. 

“I‘ve got you.“ 

“I hope you didn‘t kill him.“

“No, Sherlock, I made sure you can question him - Jesus, are you listening to yourself? You have a knife stuck in your body, bloody hell!“

“A non-fatal wound and you know it.“

“The way it‘s bleeding the knife hit your kidneys, you need to lie down.“

John stifles his Alpha impulses and addresses the blonde who is threatening to go into shock at any moment. 

“Miss, what‘s your name?“ Then, louder, “Miss?“

She startles, blinks and focuses her eyes on John. “Sarah. Sarah Fuller.“

“Sarah, I‘m John. This is Sherlock. You put up a good fight. Now can you go to the phone and call for ambulances?“

She simply looks at him for a moment, though when the words sink in, she rushes out of the kitchen. 

John guides Sherlock into the living room and lies him down between the sofa and the TV, as far enough away from the brunette‘s body as possible. John pulls the coffee table closer and puts Sherlock‘s legs up. 

“Stay still; I‘ll look for a first-aid kit.“

He passes Sarah in the hallway as she hangs up. “First-aid kit?“

“Bathroom,“ she answers, then hurries through a door and comes back out with the small box. 

John accepts it and hurries back to where Sherlock is oozing blood all over the carpet. He pulls the phone out of Sherlock‘s jacket and offers it to Sarah who takes it with shaky hands. 

“Alright, I need you to go to the call list and select Lestrade,“ John tells her while he puts on gloves and pulls out as many compressions as he can find. “Call him, tell him you are with John and Sherlock. Give him your address and tell him we caught the killer. Can you do that?“

She nods, pushes at the screen and brings the iPhone to her face. 

John listens with one ear while he moves Sherlock‘s hands to put pressure on the dressings. 

“He‘s on his way.“ 

“Good. Can you sit down and take the scissors from the first-aid kit? Cut the sleeve of your shirt off so I can tend to your wound.“ 

She nods again and John returns his focus to the detective on the floor who is growing increasingly pale. 

“Sherlock, you‘ve been lucky. The knife apparently only punctured your kidney and missed the liver. You will need an operation at the hospital but you will be fine, alright? Press down on the wound, don‘t play with the knife. I will bandage Sarah‘s wound.“

Sherlock‘s answering nod is so small that John hardly sees it. 

When he turns, he finds Sarah sitting, wound t-shirt sleeve free, staring at the brunette on the floor. 

“Sarah, can you look at me?“ John asks softly and is glad when Sarah‘s eyes find his. “I‘m sorry about your friend. But you survived, you did well. Now I‘ll patch you up, you‘re bleeding quite a bit.“

She nods and allows him to use the last dressing on her wound. He can already hear the ambulances approaching as well as the siren of the police and finally the relief floods his body, now that Sherlock‘s wound is tended to and Sarah‘s breathing is evening out. 

When the A&E arrives, everything passes in a rush. John is telling the doctors about the three patients when Greg approaches him. 

“How‘s Sherlock?“

“Bleeding but he‘ll live.“

Greg nods and follows John‘s eyes to where Sherlock is wheeled out of the flat. “Go with him. I‘ll find you at the hospital.“

John smiles briefly in gratitude, then breaks into a run to follow Sherlock into the ambulance. 

*

As soon as they reach the hospital, Sherlock is rushed into surgery, as is David Caroll since the bullet is apparently lodged between his ribs. 

Greg finds John in a waiting area near the OR. 

“Are you up to giving your statement?“

John shrugs. “It passes the time.“

“He’ll be alright, won‘t he?“ 

“Yes. But still, if I had had a clear shot earlier -“

“Why don‘t you tell me what happened? I‘m sure I‘ll still say there‘s nothing you could’ve done differently. And you did save Sarah Fuller‘s life.“

“Where is she?“

“With a doctor. Donovan will interview her.“

“Well then,“ John sighs, running a hand over his face before he gives his testimony.

“You did well, John,“ Greg says once he is done, patting his shoulder. “Who knows how many other girls Caroll would’ve killed before he stopped. If he had stopped at all.“

John doesn‘t answer; everything that comes to his mind are empty phrases. 

“There is something else,“ Greg continues and John‘s head snaps up. “Somehow the press has heard that we had an address, little buggers must‘ve been listening to our radio again. Anyway, a few reporters were outside when they transported Sherlock into the ambulance. You might get a little more attention than before from now on.“

John groans - the press following their every move isn‘t something he wants to happen. 

“Well, I‘ll deal with the vultures. Say hello to Sherlock for me. I‘ll visit for his statement later.“

John nods but halfway down the hallway, Greg stops. “You wouldn‘t happen to have my car keys, would you?“

He shakes his head. “They are in Sherlock‘s coat pocket. I‘m sure they will give them to you if you ask nicely.“

“Alright, I‘ll charm the nurses.“

“Be careful not to mention that to Judy!“ 

Greg‘s answering laugh echoes in the corridor. 

*

Sherlock is out of surgery in a little over three hours, which is a good sign, John muses. He has to wait until Sherlock is out of the recovery ward but soon, he is allowed to see him again. 

The hospital gown is not a good look on the detective, the IV even less so, but at least Sherlock is alive. 

The nurse told him it will be a little longer until Sherlock wakes up, so John decides to chance a look at his chart. 

When the receptionist turns out to be a young female Omega, John can‘t believe his luck. It is rather easy for Captain John Watson to persuade her to hand him the chart for a quick look. Like he predicted, the knife missed the liver but punctured the kidney, yet the surgeons were able to repair the damage. 

John thanks the woman and hands her back the file, then hurries back to Sherlock‘s private room. They probably have Greg to thank for that one, and that even after they stole his car. 

Sherlock drifts back into consciousness slowly, eyes adjusting to the light and surveying the room. 

He brings his hand up to his stomach and probably feels the bandages underneath the gown. He looks questioningly at John in the chair beside him. 

“You had a nephrectomy. You spent three hours in surgery but they expect a full recovery.“ 

“Caroll?“

“Had to undergo surgery to retrieve the bullet. He‘ll walk out of here and into a prison cell in no time.“

Sherlock smiles triumphantly. “I found out why we couldn‘t discern whether the murderer was Alpha, Beta or Omega. He can shift, just like that Adler woman.“

“Brilliant, as always.“

“Well, apprehending Caroll would have proven difficult without backup.“

“Is this your way of thanking me for saving your life?“

“You know me too well.“

John laughs, warmth spreading in his chest and he leans in to press a soft kiss against Sherlock‘s lips. 

Belatedly, he remembers that he never did get around to having The Talk with Sherlock like he promised Greg. That night in the pub seems like a lifetime ago. 

“Can‘t you kiss me properly?“

“You‘re recovering from trauma surgery. No strenuous physical activity, doctor‘s orders.“ 

Sherlock groans and throws his head back into the pillow. “How long will they keep me here, then?“

“Ten to twelve days.“

Sherlock‘s eyes widen for a second before he clears his throat and begins talking at high speed. “Then I need you to go back to the flat and pick up the books from the coffee table, as well as my laptop. Then I need you to check the tupperware box in the kitchen and tell me the colour. The exact colour, not just some approximation your brain has come up with. Better yet, take a picture, this way we can avoid awkward silences. Light it well, please.“

“Anything else?“

“My violin.“

John rises from the chair with a smile. “Of course.“ John regards Sherlock for a moment longer, then, impulsively, leans in again to press a kiss on Sherlock‘s hair. 

“I love you, by the way.“

Sherlock‘s face goes slack, like the news is an absolute surprise for him and perhaps it is, the concept of love hasn‘t occurred to Sherlock‘s brilliant mind. 

“I‘ll see you later,“ John says then, clarifying that he doesn‘t expect an answer of any kind, and leaves the room to fetch everything Sherlock ordered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I‘m never sure about using the “I love you“ line in fics but it just had to be said :) 
> 
> I invented Proferroxin. If something like it actually exists - great :) Well. For the taxidermy professionals… 
> 
> Thanks to my MD sister for advice on the knife wound! Originally the plan was to give Sherlock a scar like Ryan Hardy has on the show, just on the other side to avoid the pacemaker issue. Turns out puncturing the lungs is no fun at all either, so kidney it is. 
> 
> Aaaand… what I learned from this chapter: Car sex is way more fun in fanfiction than in real life. Or I was just doing it wrong ;)


	4. Omegas Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are instantly famous after taking down David Caroll and more high-profile cases further their popularity even more. Their relationship runs smoothly, too - until a family emergency commands John’s attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a thank you for waiting patiently for this update, I included some extra porn which does nothing to further the plot but… who cares ;)

Sherlock and John become celebrities overnight. 

John goes to bed after bringing Sherlock what he requested and staying until the nurses kicked him out, only to wake up the next day in a world where there are reporters camping out in front of 221B Baker Street. 

“Mrs Hudson!” he calls, having slammed the front door in the cameras’ lenses. 

“Oh, haven’t you read the papers today, John?” she asks and he follows her into her kitchen where she hands him a copy. 

Like Greg predicted, Sherlock and John were spotted at the crime scene, Sherlock on a gurney, John soaked in blood. 

“They are calling you heroes, John, say you saved a girl’s life and caught that awful man who has been terrorising London. My neighbour even called! And I couldn’t tell them anything since it was so late when you returned. What happened, John? Is Sherlock alright?”

John nods, putting his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. “He was stabbed but he will be fine. He had surgery-”

“Surgery?!” 

“Yes, but he’s going to be alright. And yes, we caught the murderer.”

“Thank God. Are you going to the hospital now?” John nods again. “Give Sherlock my love and he better eat the food they give him; the way I know him he hasn’t been eating while that serial killer was at large.”

John smiles, squeezes Mrs Hudson’s shoulders and boldly fights his way through the hoards of reporters and photographers on the street. 

*

Somehow, Sherlock manages to get himself released from the hospital in five days instead of ten (and judging by the nurses’ looks they are glad to see him go, no matter how much damage control John tried to do; well, they should have known better than to send nurses who sleep with married doctors after the first two days) and by that time, the public has been well informed about what happened at King’s College. 

Perhaps the repercussions hadn’t been so severe if John and Sherlock weren’t who they are, namely the former Alpha leader of the Resistance forces and his former Omega hostage who also ensured the Resistance’s victory over the Traditionalist. 

As it now is, though, the press is having a field day, turning Sherlock and him into the paradigm of modern society: An Alpha and an Omega, working together as equals. The fact that they are apparently in a relationship is an added bonus. 

The hits on John’s blog spike, especially after he posts “The Solution in the Eye” and both of them are bombarded with requests to take over cases. 

Sherlock turns down 70 per cent on the spot, solves another 20 per cent within the first five minutes of meeting the postulant, and takes over the remaining ten per cent. Greg contributes his own share of intriguing cases to keep them busy. 

John follows as he always has, even provides helpful ideas from time to time, puts his military expertise to good use and blogs about their successes. 

The most publicised is the case of a kidnapped millionaire which Greg forced upon them, despite the emphatic “Boring!” the crime received from Sherlock in the beginning. John is glad he was able to persuade Sherlock to take it nevertheless; it did bring in quite a nice amount of money to supplement John’s government wages for training the recruits and consulting in meetings regarding new legislations and reforms whenever he can. 

While Sherlock has never mentioned John’s declaration of love that day in the hospital since then, John can tell that Sherlock believes him and that he, in his own particular way, returns the sentiment. 

Sherlock doesn’t tell him, though he lets his actions speak for themselves. It is in the small gestures, in the way he looks at John when they wake up side by side, when he initiates a kiss just to kiss him and not to start anything and the way he trusts John with his life over and over again. 

“Still, why can’t he just say it, for Christ’s sake?“ Greg wonders loudly, but then he is at his fifth pint that night. 

“I don’t need him to say it, Greg, I know,“ John replies with conviction. 

The DI sighs into his glass and the miserable look is back. Sherlock deduced his wife Judy is cheating on him after only three months of marriage. 

“Sherlock’s right, that wanker. Of course he’s right. I checked her text messages; she’s sexting with her tennis instructor.“

“I’m sorry,“ is all John can say. He briefly wonders what he would do if Sherlock cheated on him, but the thought is so far-fetched that he can’t treat it seriously. 

“And I wanted to talk to her about kids, you know,” Greg rambles on, emptying his pint and promptly ordering a sixth. “Always wanted to be a father… What about you two? Your kids should be a handful, what with Sherlock’s brains and your brawn.”

John snorts at the thought. “We’re not having kids, Greg.”

“Really? Yeah, well, the Guardian would love you for raising kids. But only if you get married first; now that Omegas can, you know.”

“Greg, we’re not getting married and we’re not starting a family. Have you met Sherlock?” Greg chuckles, swaying slightly in his seat. “Besides, we get enough media attention as it is. I don’t understand how people would want to see so many pictures of me, it’s annoying. Would I get away with shooting the reporters?” 

“Keep saving millionaires and you just might,” Greg jokes, accepting his sixth beer.

*

Sherlock is in his bedroom, respectively his laboratory, checking on the jars he has been cultivating smelly stuff in. By now, John doesn’t even ask, yet banishes some of his experiments from the kitchen when they turn into a health hazard. 

John pauses in the doorway, observing how Sherlock’s long fingers dance over the surface of a tablet (gift from the millionaire along with rather ugly cufflinks), probably noting how the smelly stuffs’ colours developed over the past twelve hours or something similarly arbitrary. Well, arbitrary to John. 

“Stop watching, John, it’s distracting.”

“Perhaps that is my intent.”

“Put your libido on hold for another fifteen minutes, if you please.”

John smirks even though Sherlock can’t see it with his eyes trained on the screen. “Alright; shall I warm up the bed? Or are you in the mood for defiling the sofa tonight?” 

John watches Sherlock swallow hard with satisfaction. “What would said defiling entail?”

“Me rimming you within an inch of your sanity and then shagging you until all you remember is my name.”

Sherlock wets his lips, fingers pausing over the screen, and tries to control his body but John knows it will be only a matter of moments before Sherlock pounces on him. 

“I’ll be on the sofa, then. Come out whenever you’re ready.” John doesn’t leave right away but opens the bottoms of his shirt, nice and slow, tugging it out of his trousers before he proceeds into the living room and continues to undress. 

Sherlock is out of the bedroom, already naked, before John can step out of his trousers and sinks to his knees in front of John, long fingers slipping underneath the waistband of his pants and tugging them down, freeing John’s already hard cock. John sported an erection ever since he got into the taxi at the pub; his thoughts already at home with Sherlock spread out naked and begging.

Sherlock takes his time, teasing the shaft with his tongue, playing with John’s balls, kissing the slit and licking his lips to catch the precome. Sherlock draws it out until John is seconds away from grabbing Sherlock’s hair and fucking his mouth and his partner is fully aware of this. They know each other too well by now, is the last coherent thought John can form before Sherlock swallows him down in one go, relaxing his jaw and taking him in until his nose is in John’s pubic hair. 

Sherlock pulls back, twisting his tongue, then heat engulfs John once again and all he can do is hold onto the sofa’s backrest for support to stay upright as Sherlock sucks him off with the incredible focus and determination he brings to cases. He tongues the spot where his glans meets the shaft, then moves up to the slit and John’s hip buckle forward. Sherlock takes him into his mouth again, increasing the pace. 

John’s breath is coming in erratic gasps by then and when he feels Sherlock’s lips sucking at his balls, he swears loudly. Sherlock swallows his cock again and when John can feel his throat convulsing around the tip, he spends himself deep down Sherlock’s throat with a strangled moan. 

Sherlock oozes complacency when he rises but John swiftly wipes the smirk off his face by moving him around the sofa and shoving him onto his stomach. John covers Sherlock’s body with his own, sucking at his neck so hard he leaves a bruise behind and Sherlock is rutting into the cushions. 

Like he promised, John licks a wet trail down Sherlock’s spine, counting every vertebrae, until he reaches the cleft of his firm arse. His hands cup each cheek and pull them apart, granting him access to Sherlock’s hole. John laps at it, teasing the rim, enjoying the taste of Sherlock’s slick on his tongue. John’s lips close over his hole and he sucks, swallows the fluid Sherlock’s Omega physiology provides like it is nectar and he hears Sherlock whine above him. 

Only now John pushes his tongue inside, loosening the ring of muscle, his hands holding Sherlock’s hips in place so he can’t rock back into him. John explores every inch of Sherlock, maps it out and pulls out again, sucking in the slick that is flowing more profusely now. Sherlock has never been this turned on outside his heat and John’s chest swells with pride as he swallows. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock begs and John’s cock twitches between his legs. John doesn’t oblige right away; instead he licks a path down to Sherlock’s balls and sucks them into his mouth until Sherlock is swearing into the sofa cushion. 

Only then John pushes into his hole again, working his tongue in and out in a quick rhythm that has Sherlock’s back arching. John takes good care to stretch Sherlock at the same time to prepare him for John’s cock which is starting to fill again, fuelled by the sounds that escape his partner’s throat. 

John adjusts his grip, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks wider so he can press deeper inside Sherlock, working his tongue in as far as possible. He alternates between sucking at Sherlock’s entrance and fucking him with is tongue furiously and in no time Sherlock shudders with release. 

John allows him a few moments to catch his breath, then pushes Sherlock a little further onto the sofa so he is on all fours. John drags the tip of his leaking cock over the twitching hole and Sherlock rocks back. 

“You’re eager tonight,“ John purrs, leaning back so that his cock doesn’t enter yet. “Do you want my cock so much?“

“Yes,“ Sherlock pants, “fill me up, shag me until I’m hard again, please, John!“

John rams into Sherlock with one well-practiced thrust and buries himself to the hilt inside Sherlock. The Alpha in him roars with pleasure and John doesn’t stop his knot from filling when it does. John pulls out and pushes back in, adjusting his angle to hit Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock cries out, throwing his head back and John leans forward, sucking on the already forming bruise again, revelling in the sight of the mark on Sherlock’s pristine skin. 

The movement pushes John’s knot against Sherlock’s body and it elicits a full-body shudder from the detective. 

“You like the feeling of my knot against my arse?“ John whispers in Sherlock’s ear and bites his other shoulder. 

Sherlock moans in response and John pushes in deeper, forcing his knot harder against Sherlock’s entrance. 

“Please,” Sherlock begs and John couldn’t have waited if he wanted to, his Alpha instincts taking over at the sound of his Omega begging to be knotted. 

John withdraws and slams back inside with enough force to push the swollen base of his cock inside Sherlock’s hole. He gasps under him, arms giving out and Sherlock lands on his elbows, bowing his head. John licks a stripe up his spine, then tongues Sherlock’s pulse point which always makes him writhe and this time is no exception. Sherlock wriggles and clenches on John’s cock, sending jolts of intense pleasure through his body. 

John’s next thrusts are shallow, stretching Sherlock a bit more so he will take his knot with less resistance when he pulls out and presses in again. 

Sherlock positively whines when John’s knot leaves his body only to moan deeply when he feels it inside him once again. 

John can feel his orgasm building and he reaches down, wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s cock but it only takes a few strokes and Sherlock is coming for the second time that night, his arse convulsing around John’s cock and knot. The sensation is too much and he climaxes deep inside his partner. 

When he moves to withdraw Sherlock’s hands on his hips stop him, demanding him to stay, lock their bodies together and with a swiftness that surprises even him, he changes their position and arranges Sherlock without ever slipping out so that they are chest to chest. 

Sherlock’s head flops down onto John’s shoulder and they breathe in the smell of their mixed scents. John pulls Sherlock closer, craving more skin to skin contact and Sherlock wraps his arms around his neck, holding on tightly. 

John kisses Sherlock’s neck and whispers, “I love you” because it is true and he doesn’t need to hear the detective saying it back to know the feeling is mutual. 

Sherlock withdraws a little and their eyes meet and John knows he is right. Sherlock closes the distance between them and kisses him passionately and it is a perfect moment because it is also uniquely Sherlock.

They doze off like this, bodies knotted together, chest to chest and incredibly sated. 

*

Their next case earns them the most publicity. After Scotland Yard received an anonymous tip concerning a long-lost painting of William Turner, Greg tasks them with its retrieval. 

Why Sherlock took the case is a mystery to John; there was nothing to go on except the anonymous tip yet somehow, the detective was intrigued enough to warrant a two week adventure across Britain, investigating black markets and high society gatherings. 

Sherlock’s heat strikes somewhere in Cardiff and it costs them two days, not that John minds too much. After all, it’s just a painting. 

In the end, they discover a large ring of smugglers who wanted to sell the painting to the highest bidder. Sherlock deduces that the anonymous tip stems from a bidder at the auction who lost to someone prepared to spend more. 

Sherlock is thrumming with energy when he and John unveil the painting after the criminals have been knocked out and bound to conveniently located pipes in the basement of the old warehouse, because naturally the smugglers would chose an old warehouse, John muses with a smile. 

“This is exquisite,” Sherlock whispers as his eyes rake across the canvas. To John, it looks like a scene from a pirate film. One group of people is attacking a ship, slitting men’s throats, while the rising sun drowns the sky in a bloody red. All is done in a strange style which seems to emphasise the landscape more than the characters. 

“What is it?” John asks eventually. He never had much of a thing for art and couldn’t distinguish expressionism from romanticism. 

“Omegas Rising. It’s believed to have been destroyed by the government after Turner presented it since it shows Omega slaves revolting against British rule. Apparently, someone saved it and hid it for almost 200 years.“

“So that’s why they wanted to sell it now? With the new laws and such?”

“Obviously. If caught, they wouldn’t have had to fear to be hanged for treachery.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still on the painting so John produces his mobile to give Greg the good news. 

*

When the medial backlash eventually dies down, John is incredibly relieved. More than once over the past few weeks he wished for a way to turn back time and stop Sherlock from ever taking that case. 

Alpha John Watson and Omega Sherlock Holmes finding a lost piece of Reformist art was the topic of every newspaper and talk show for two straight weeks and then again a few days ago when the Tate Britain unveiled it for visitors to see. With heavy security in place, of course, since a few Traditionalist fundamentalist still abound in London and they might just try to send a message by stealing or destroying that painting. 

Sherlock is forever the Rising Hero in the eye of the public and even John is asked for autographs when he shops for groceries. 

“Why don’t you reap the benefits?” Greg asks that night. The DI is in a very good mood since Judy came clean about her affair and begged for forgiveness which he granted. “Go on a few shows, give interviews, take their cash. I bet they’re offering quite a bit.”

John shudders at the thought. “I’m a soldier, Greg, not a politician. And Sherlock won’t be bothered by such tedious stuff as interviews.”

“Well, my luck, isn’t it then? I was afraid you’d let me solve my cases alone and start catering to all those offering you more money for your help.”

“That would never happen, at least as long as your problems are still the most fascinating.”

“Cheers to the criminals of London for their innovation, right?” Greg quips, rising his pint and they clink glasses. 

*

After they solve their next big case, Sherlock is so euphoric that he pushes John against their apartment door, devours his mouth and then proceeds to shed their clothing at staggering speed. 

He all but shoves John into the armchair, which is easier accessible than the sofa and climbs into his lap immediately. They are both naked and hard and John can positively smell Sherlock’s hole leaking. 

The next thing he knows it that Sherlock sinks onto his cock, taking him in without any preparation, only the slick provided by his body easing the way. Sherlock bites his lower lip and John pulls him down so he can lick into his mouth. 

He lets Sherlock set the pace which is brutal and Sherlock is wild above him, throwing his head back and working off the adrenaline of the case in a way that leaves John breathless, fingers digging into the armrests.

John faintly hears Sherlock’s mobile ring but neither of them cares as John tilts his hips which makes his cock hit Sherlock’s prostate at ever movement. 

John’s phone rings next and they ignore it just as well; he doubts that Sherlock even perceives the noise in the state he is in, beautiful and feral and incredibly erotic.

John palms Sherlock’s erection in time with the Omega’s thrusts and soon Sherlock can’t decide whether to fuck himself on John’s cock or to thrust into his hand, so John sits up and takes over, thrusting upwards into Sherlock, keeping the angle and increasing the rhythm of his hand and within minutes, Sherlock is arching his back and shooting his come all over John’s chest. 

Sherlock, still coherent even post-coital, never allows their movements to falter and leans forward, licking his own seed of John’s chest, gazing up at him through long lashes and swallows. 

That’s it, John comes undone, spilling himself into Sherlock’s body. He focusses on willing his knot down as Sherlock slumps into him, panting hard. 

Then, the doorbell rings.

“Go away!” Sherlock shouts. 

“They can’t hear you downstairs…” John remarks but Sherlock snorts derisively. 

Suddenly, they hear voices - Mrs Hudson must have opened the door and before John and Sherlock can move, footsteps John identifies as Greg’s sound from outside the door. 

“Greg, don’t enter!” John calls out, hoping that Greg will listen. 

The steps pause on top of the steps. “Do I want to know why?” 

“We have just engaged in carnal activities and are lacking sufficient clothing to welcome respectable members of the Yard into our flat,” Sherlock explains loudly.

Someone sniggers outside. 

“Bollocks, he’s not alone,” John groans, burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Could you please, uh, remedy the clothing situation and open the door once you are decent? It’s really urgent.“

“Give us a minute!“ John calls back. 

“Why can’t they just go away?“ Sherlock asks, sounding like a petulant child rather than an adult detective with an IQ well over 150. 

“Because there is a case and they need their Rising Hero, so climb off, now.”

“Imagine if you’d have knotted me. They’d been standing outside for thirty awkward minutes.”

John chuckles at the thought. “I’m sure Mrs Hudson would have made them tea.” Then he raises an expectant eyebrow at Sherlock who is still on top of him, with John’s cock still in him. 

“I don’t want to climb off,“ Sherlock explains. “Can’t you knot me now, give us an excuse?“

“We can hear you, you know!” Donovan’s voice comes through the door and they both lock eyes for a second before they burst out laughing. 

It takes a while until they calm down again and then they are still chuckling. 

“Sherlock, a government agent has been partially skinned. We need you there as soon as possible.”

Greg’s comment receives the wanted reaction. Sherlock stills, sobering up in the blink of an eye, then is off John and into his trousers in record time. John has just closed his belt but is still missing his shirt when Sherlock opens the door with a suave, “Now why couldn’t you have lead with that.”

Donovan raises an appreciative eyebrow when she catches sight of John’s bare chest and abs. 

“Donovan, please don’t ogle my partner. And rest assured that the sex was spectacular.“

John splutters, blushing furiously, and retrieves his shirt as quickly as he can from the floor. 

Greg grimaces, closing his eyes. Donovan smirks, not at all cross. 

John, buttoned up and less flushed, steps closer. “So, now what is the problem?”

“A man with the skin taken off his right arm, that’s the problem. Grab your coats and come on.” Greg waits for an affirmative nod from John and descends the stairs again. Donovan lingers until Sherlock growls and shoos her out the door, coat in hand. 

John takes a moment to process how this has become his life and follows obediently. 

*

Greg leads them to the top floor of an office building with view of the Thames. The top three floors are under construction which explains why the body has only been found today on Tuesday night by the security guard who took the time to sweep the entire building. 

“The construction workers are currently located two floors below this one; that’s why no one found the body,” Greg explains as he leads them around a pillar. 

John sees Sherlock open his mouth, probably to argue with Greg’s assumption, yet the words die in his throat when they glimpse what exactly Greg meant by “skinned”. 

The victim is strapped to a surgical chair with special rests for his arms and legs. The man, an Alpha, is naked and bloodied but the worst sight is his right arm which is void of skin from the fingertips up to the shoulder. 

It looks like something straight out of Body Worlds which John never visited since he has seen his fair share of people’s innards in Afghanistan and the Revolution. 

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, is looking at the body in awe and approaches it, circles around the corpse to take stock for a moment before he looks expectantly up at Greg. Sherlock’s lips are threatening to curl into a smile and John hopes for everyone’s sanity that this is not going to happen. 

“James Sterling, 43, Alpha, government agent. We have trouble receiving more intel on him and whether he has been missing, but Anderson estimates time of death occurred about 24 hours ago.”

“Cause of death?” John asks. 

“Isn‘t it obvious?” Donovan asks back, her face rather green.

“Not particularly,” John tells her and steps closer, inspecting the incisions, the clamps which suppress blood flow, the myriad of wounds on the body. “Whoever did this has to have medical training; the murderer took great care that the victim didn’t die from the skinning.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his eyes sparkle with praise. 

“I’ve got to concur.” Anderson, in full forensic gear, appears from behind another pillar. “The victim’s oesophagus lining is damaged and he has particular bruising around the stomach area.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the officer as if seeing him for the first time. “Are you indeed suggesting the man has been tortured by means of the water cure, Anderson?”

“Obvious,” Anderson bites back in a uncannily accurate imitation of Sherlock’s own catchphrase. 

“Water cure?” Greg asks, looking from Sherlock to his officer to John who volunteers an explanation. 

“Forced ingestion of large quantities of water. The bruising means the attacker beat him around that area to ensure he vomits the water back up. I saw one case in Afghanistan; the soldier was healthy but the water cure screwed up his electrolyte balance and cost him his life since we didn’t have the medicine to deal with the problem; and even then he might have still died.”

Silence falls, only interrupted by the sound of Sherlock’s steps as he inspects the room and the body. 

“Christ, why can’t the killers just use a bloody gun?” Greg groans, shaking his head. 

“Because this particular killer had a personal relationship to the victim or at least to something he had done,” Sherlock supplies, probably not identifying the rhetorical question for what it is or simply ignoring it. 

“What do you mean?”

“One; this took a great deal of preparation, not only finding the location but gathering the surgical equipment which would have been necessary. Two; the murderer focussed on the right arm and shoulder which has to be relevant to the motive. Three; it might have been sexually motivated since the Alpha has been forced to knot after which the killer attached a cock ring, keeping both knot and cock erect which must have been incredibly painful.”

“Theories?”

Sherlock glances at the victim’s face. “You said he is a government agent but you haven’t received more information on his occupation?” Greg nods. “I doubt you will receive anything substantial; he probably was SIS.”

“What?!” 

But before Sherlock can dive into his condescending monologue about how he deduced this particular detail, John asks Greg for the victim’s ID. The DI hands the evidence bag to him and John snorts. 

“His ID says Universal Exports. He isn’t merely SIS, he is MI6.”

“And you know this, how?” Donovan’s eyebrows threaten to disappear underneath her hairline. 

John hands Greg the evidence back. “I consult in military affairs. You pick up a few things about how the SIS operates.”

“Don’t forget the fact that Bhabha asked you to join,” Sherlock adds with a smirk. 

Greg’s eyes widen and John tries to communicate that he wasn’t at liberty to tell his friend anything about it and that Sherlock, that bastard, of course knew it the moment John returned from that particular meeting. 

The DI shakes his head and sighs. “So we have a dead MI6 operative on whom we won’t get any intel and who has been tortured and skinned as a part of what, revenge?”

“So it would seem at this time,” Sherlock states. John can tell by the excited tension in his partner’s body that this one will be a hard case to crack. 

“Well, I can tell you right now that we won’t get any more information on SIS employees; not if I go through the proper channels.” Greg pointedly looks at John. 

Of course, the Secret Service will deny all affiliations to James Sterling, if that even is his real name, after his death and it won’t make a different if a simple yet renowned DI asks. John Watson however, might. 

“We’ll pay them a visit tomorrow,” John agrees and he drags Sherlock off with him, given that they need the autopsy results as soon as possible and all Sherlock will accomplish is delay the process. 

*

Sherlock invites himself along to Greg and John’s trip to the MI6 headquarters and it only takes an hour and a half to be allowed into the office of the woman in charge who seems deeply moved by the death of her agent if one believes Sherlock’s deduction. 

She agrees that MI6 will provide a slightly less censored version of the classified files on James Sterling provided the case stay absolutely secret and doesn’t land on the front page of the Sun and provided that the Met doesn’t receive copies of the files. 

Sherlock is annoyingly smug on the cab ride back to their flat where they tackle the files. 

Hours and a lot of swearing at blackened paragraphs later, they have several leads which mostly involve family members of criminals James Sterling eliminated in the line for duty. 

It is late but they set out for the Met nevertheless to present their finding to Greg and retrieve the autopsy results.

*

Richard Lubitsch is a competent operative and a deadly opponent. That is, if he isn’t highly intoxicated after leaving his brother’s birthday party. 

Well, that’s what he tells himself later, when he picks himself and his dignity up from the pavement where the thug shoved him onto. 

He lives only a few streets from his brother, so naturally he walks home instead of hailing a cab. He can still walk and as it turns out, he can still break the nose of anyone who attacks him from behind. 

That is, however, the limit of his abilities that night and the attacker slams him into a wall again, pressing the cold barrel of a gun against his head. Lubitsch waits for a sign of what the man - tall, muscled, black clothes, Beta, sunglasses - wants from him. 

A moment later, when he can be sure the agent won’t fight back anymore, he leans closer and whispers in his ear. 

“I got a message for John Watson. If he wants to find his sister, he has to discover the Den of Inequity in Peckham. But he might not recognise who he finds there.“

The thug shoves him to the ground and runs off before Lubitsch has a chance to stand up and find his balance. By the time he is ready to go after him, the attacker is nowhere in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case of James Sterling inspired by the wonderful 00Q fic “[Vita Mortis](http://archiveofourown.org/works/659911/chapters/1203339)” by Marquestate and TABrown. If you like that pairing, please check out the story, it is worth your time. And no, this is not going to turn into a Bondlock crossover ;)
> 
> Also, my great beta Iriya has taken the time to take a closer look at "Civil Disobedience", which will be re-edited as soon as I have the time. Then, it will also be translates into Chinese. Isn't that the coolest thing ever? :D  
> EDIT: Part I has been revised thanks to Iriya and the translation has also been posted.


	5. Missing sister found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lubitsch comes to John with news about his sister, John is ready to leave in seconds. Sherlock, however, is more concerned with the case at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time looking for brothel names... “The Quivering Hills” almost made the list ;)  
> The name “Yuri Kapov” taken from the movie 2012, fyi. I liked the name. And the film!
> 
> Thanks to [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for naming this chapter and for being a wonderful beta!

A newspaper slides across the table and comes to a halt at Mycroft’s elbow. One look suffices to discern the front page is filled with yet another picture about his brother. 

“Making quite a name for himself,” Yuri Kapov comments. Kapov is in charge of Mycroft’s prison block and thankfully a covert traditionalist. Mycroft would have had to endure real, menial labour instead of quiet work in the library if it weren’t for this man. 

“What did he do this time? Save another millionaire?” Mycroft asks, his voice deliberately bored. In reality he is glad Kapov decided to keep him informed. The career his brother manages to have with the help of John Watson is quite remarkable. 

“No. Found some old painting. You should read it.”

Mycroft scans the article, unfolding the newspaper, intrigued. Yuri usually never advises him to read anything.

He skims the article, noting how highly the press speaks of his brother (the “Rising Hero”, they call him), and proceeds to page four where it continues. There, at the bottom of the page, is Yuri’s cyrillic scrawl. Pencil, easily erased. 

Mycroft reads the sentence and his heart rate increases. He hands Pakov the newspaper back with a smile who then leaves the library and allows Mycroft to go back to his work. 

He can’t fathom it is happening. Months of planning and finally a sign of hope. 

_I contacted my friend. He is willing to help._

*

Wednesday morning - alright, it’s rather noonish - Lubitsch wakes up with one hell of a headache and hangover. He still has another day of leave before he needs to report back to the office and he knows just how to spend it. 

He uses every database available to him at MI5, calls a few contacts and by the end of the day, has gathered enough intel so he can take the tip to his boss as a legit case. 

Mr Mulcahy raises an eyebrow when he finds Lubitsch in his office, but doesn’t say anything. Mulcahy led Reformist troops into battle in the civil war and fought side by side with Lubitsch on many occasions during Captain Watson’s capture. Unlike the doctor, Mulcahy didn’t turn down a promotion to an SIS operative, now commanding the MI5 - and Lubitsch.

“You look like a man with a mission, operative.“

“Yes, sir. You’ll find I make a compelling case.“ He explains as succinctly as possible about the tip he received and his research, demanding the institution of a task force under Captain Watson’s command to retrieve his sister and free any other victim they manage to find.

Mulcahy knows just as well as Lubitsch that once John hears his sister’s name, he will be on board, no matter what his mate and he are up to. 

“If Watson agrees, the mission is a go. But one word to the press and you’ll be manning a desk for a month, Lubitsch.“

“Thank you, sir.” He nods and hurries out of the office and goes looking for a cab to take him to Captain Watson.

*

“Sherlock, do you really think it’s a good idea to hack SIS servers?”

“Please. We need information and we need it fast. Going through the channels is tedious.“

John wants desperately to object but he knows his complaints will fall on deaf ears, so he puts down his half-raised hand and goes to make tea in the kitchen. 

The doorbell rings as he pours the water and John hurries up since Sherlock can’t even be bothered with opening the door when he is not hacking government sites. 

The sight of one Richard Lubitsch, dressed in an immaculate suit and looking years younger than he had when they had fought side by side, is a complete surprise. 

“John,” he greets him, his lips not quite smiling. Something must be up or else Lubitsch wouldn’t appear on his doorstep in the middle of the morning. 

“Rick, this is unexpected. Come on in.”

They mount the stairs and Sherlock turns around in his chair at the living room desk when they enter. 

“Sherlock, you remember Sergeant Lubitsch. Although, it’s agent now, isn’t it?”

The former soldier nods and smiles pleasantly at Sherlock. “Nice to see you again, sir.” 

Sherlock merely narrows his eyes, ignoring the social nicety. “What happened?”

John sighs and shoots Lubitsch an apologetic look. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“Thanks, but this is rather urgent.”

John’s muscles tense immediately and his right hand twitches even though his Sig is not at his back but safe on the mantelpiece of the fireplace. 

John motions to the sofa and Lubitsch takes a seat, John claiming the armchair but staying on the edge of his seat, intrigued by the air of mystery Lubitsch projects. 

“I received a tip about your sister’s whereabouts, John.”

His heart stops. It literally misses a beat for a second and then it jumps into his throat. 

“Harry?” 

It has been years, decades even, and a part of him has always feared she is long dead. 

“Yes. The man told me she can be found in the Den Of Inequity in Peckham. But… That you might not recognise her anymore.”

John takes a supposedly calming breath yet his heart rate doesn’t falter. “I take it you did some research on the matter?” His voice is firm, of which John is strangely proud. 

Lubitsch nods. “The Den of Inequity is the name of a ring of illegal brothels. As far as I could gather, they have emerged after the civil war led to a ban on prostitution and especially on a ban of turning Omegas into sex slaves.”

John can feel his stomach drop. Harry. A sex slave. 

He swallows hard. “Do we have confirmation of her whereabouts?”

“No, sir. The Dens are incredibly hard to find since they operate like a secret society. However, I have a contact who is positive he can get two agents in undercover to scout the location and find out if your sister is truly being kept in Peckham.” 

“You have clearance?”

“Yes. You are to head the task force which I will gather today. We can make contact as soon as tonight. Mulcahy signed off on the mission, provided you lead it.”

John is on his feet within a second and has his gun in hand after another. “Alright. Give me a few minutes to pack and we can leave right now.”

“What?” comes Sherlock’s voice from the desk and John realises he almost forgot his partner is there. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yes.”

“But we have a case!” Sherlock sounds incredulous, genuinely appalled by this turn of events. 

John can only stare at him, incomprehension clearly visible on his face. 

“You can’t leave now, we haven’t found the murderer yet,” Sherlock asserts, rising from his chair. Inconspicuously, Lubitsch takes a few steps back.

“Sherlock, it’s my sister.”

The detective shrugs. “If she is indeed a prostitute at the Den, then she will still be yours to rescue after we solved the Sterling case. The informant didn’t deliver a deadline, did he?” He turns to Lubitsch who quickly shakes his head, but otherwise opts to stay out of the conversation. 

John can feel anger rising inside his chest, a kind of anger he never felt, and it is directed at the Omega in front of him. 

“Are you saying you expect me to keep you company while you hack into SIS servers to follow leads on some man who is already dead, instead of going after my sister whom I haven’t seen for years?”

“There is no reason to get emotional, John-” Sherlock begins but John doesn’t let him finish. 

“Oh yes, it is! What the bloody hell are you thinking? This is about saving a life!”

“Yeah, yeah, establish contact, go in undercover, find out Harry is in there, storm the place and retrieve her; incredibly boring, don’t you think? We have more pressing matters to focus on!” 

“We don’t, Sherlock! The investigation isn’t even on the records, Christ!” John’s voice rises unwillingly yet he can’t find it in him to care. 

Sherlock regards him for a moment. “You really are set on leaving now.”

“Yes, brilliant deduction, detective, brilliant as ever. Now, you can either follow me upstairs and pack your bag or you can shut up and focus on more pressing matters.” John spits out the last three words with enough venom to poison a snake. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen for a second but before John can see if he reacts in any other way, he is already through the door and on his way to their bedroom. Within minutes, he has a bag ready and re-enters the realm of awkward silence.

Sherlock hasn’t moved and John can’t believe his partner is so cold-hearted when it comes to John’s family. 

“You’re being completely unreasonable, John,” Sherlock says. “You can’t leave in the middle of a case.” 

John glares at him. “Contrary to some people, I do have a heart.” He grabs his coat, nods at Lubitsch and storms out, not sparing Sherlock another glance. 

His heart clenches when he slides into the cab which Lubitsch has asked to wait. He never thought Sherlock would leave him to do something like this alone. 

He thought Sherlock cared for him as deeply as John does for Sherlock. 

Perhaps, he was a little too sure of himself after all. 

*

John is still seething inside when they reach MI5 headquarters where the rest of their team has already gathered. 

“Sergeant Wilder,” John greets his former soldier with a smile. “Great to see you again.”

“My pleasure, sir.” 

Two more agents will come with them, John remembers training them. Karl and Brady are young and fast, apt at hand-to-hand combat. 

Lubitsch establishes contact with his informant and they decided that John and Wilder will stake out the brothel; John, since he is the only one who will be able to identify Harry and Wilder because he has most experience in undercover missions. 

John colours his hair black and receives a truly awful moustache to conceal his identity while Wilder shaves his stubble off. They are both Alphas nearing forty, business partners looking for a blushing Omega to shag. They have the money necessary to be allowed into the Den and the money necessary to pay for their services. 

The first meeting with new clients, according to Lubitsch’s source, is always just a conversation where the brothel owner explains the procedures that have to be followed to assure privacy and prevent detection. 

John and Wilder find the Den easily once they have been told where to look and are greeted by a man who looks more like an accountant than a criminal - short, dark hair which is conventionally cut, an average suit, non-descriptive features, Alpha, in his mid-thirties. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

The man, Sebastian Wilkes, leads them into the building, gesturing as he speaks. The rooms are bare, as if no one is living here, as if nothing conspicuous is going on.

“This is the place where all your dreams become true, gentlemen. These rooms are just for show; the real fun begins here.” 

Wilkes stops over a Persian rug which stands out against the otherwise Spartan decor and kicks it back, revealing a trap door. Wilkes lets them in first and after passing through another hall, they reach - well, a strip club. 

The room is surprisingly large; two bars are on either side of the room, small tables are scattered throughout the club, scarcely clad women and men, all so obviously Omegas, are dancing on poles. 

“Welcome, to the real Den of Inequity,” Wilkes announces. “This is the main room; watching only. If you want a private lap dance, take one of our slaves to the private rooms over here.” Wilkes points to a door on their right, manned by wall of a bloke. “You pay the bouncer for the Omega’s service. Now,” Wilkes leads them further along the right side until they reach stairs leading further down. 

“This leads to our, well, special offers. If you want more than just a dance, find your way down here. You can view the slaves, chose and book a room for any amount of time you wish. No permanent marks or injuries; if you hurt a slave so much that it won’t be able to service other customers, you’re paying for the time it is absent.“ 

John tries to keep his distance from what the man is telling them but he feels more nauseous by the minute. Additionally, the place reeks of pheromones, which is in no way helping. 

“There is no chance we might get lucky tonight already?” John asks, aiming for eager. 

Wilkes smiles with fake sweetness. “No, I’m sorry. But we have to take your contact information, run some background checks, see if you are indeed worthy of our service. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” Wilder acquiesces and Wilkes invites them to a drink at the bar furthest away from the staircase that leads to where, presumably, Harry is being kept. 

They provide the boss with their fake identities - both with bulletproof backstories that will convince Wilkes they are to be trusted - and Wilkes engages them in small talk, explaining how he is an accountant (John barely holds back his snort) in real life but that this is his passion. 

When they leave and are a fair distance away, John vomits into a bush. 

“Now there, sir, I’d have thought you’ve seen much worse.”

John spits onto the ground, grimacing at the taste. “That was war. This is… To think that my sister… Christ!” He kicks the dustbin near him so hard that it crashes into the house wall. 

“We’re in now, sir. We’ll find her and we’ll safe her, and take these plonkers down while we’re at it.”

John forces a smile, then continues walking in the direction of their meeting point with Lubitsch and the others. 

*

John crashes at Lubitsch’s place for the duration of the mission. It has nothing to do with the fight Sherlock and he had, John tells himself, and everything to do with maintaining cover. They can’t be sure if the Den’s owner won’t have them followed. 

For good measure, John and Wilder meet for lunch that day, talking about their non-existent business. It’s fun, John has to admit, even if the prospect of finding Harry leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.

All day, John glances at his mobile, hoping that maybe, Sherlock will call, either to inform him of his progress in the Sterling case or to… apologise? Even to John, the thought sounds ridiculous. 

John’s MI5 issued phone rings at seven that evening while their task force is gathered in Lubitsch’s bachelor pad. 

“Mr Cummings? You have been approved,” Sebastian Wilkes’ voice informs him.

“Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to tonight.”

Wilder receives the same call a few minutes later and the jovial mood shifts to wired concentration as they prepare for the next phase of their operation. 

*

It takes all of John’s self-control to keep his features even as he passes through rows and rows of cages, each one basically too small to house a human but the brothel doesn’t seem to care. The smell is incredible, enticing, so purely Omega that John would probably have problems if he weren’t so used to Sherlock’s scent. 

“What if I wanted to fuck an Omega in heat?“ Wilder asks as they slowly make their way through the rows. 

“No problem, sir,” Wilkes replies smoothly, “we have appropriate medication for that. Most of our slaves are constantly in heat.” 

John shudders involuntarily. The strain on an Omega’s body alone will leave permanent damage if this treatment is kept up over a longer period of time. John has seen first hand how withdrawal goes, having freed more sex slaves than he would like to remember. 

A particular smell hits John’s nose and he sniffs unnoticeably, trying to pinpoint the location. He steps closer to the cage and Wilkes stops, noticing John’s distraction. 

“Oh yes, isn’t it exquisite? According to our source, this Omega has been a trained sex slave since it was twelve. Can you imagine what it can do to please you?” 

John growls, though not because he finds the thought particularly enticing - the naked woman smells like family. It’s Harry, it’s his sister. 

“My, my, aren’t we eager. She is 100 pounds the hours, and so worth it.”

John schools his expression and turns to Wilkes. “I’m sold. I’ll take an hour. I’m sure I can extend that period, if the slave pleases me?”

“Of course, Mr Cummings.” 

Wilkes calls a guard who drags the Omega - Harry - out of the cage roughly. As far as John can see, she follows willingly. 

“Enjoy.” Wilkes smiles maliciously and guides Wilder further down the hallway. Their eyes meet and John tries to look reassuring, then nods at the guard to lead the way to their room. 

The chamber looks like a motel. It’s scarcely decorated with just the basics; a bed, a small bathroom to the left, a chest, probably holding toys, restraints, and much more. 

“I will knock when the hours is up,” the guard informs him, then leaves John alone with the woman, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

John approaches her tentatively, taking in her scent and every cell in his body screams that this is her, this is his sister, this is Harry who he hasn’t seen for twenty-two years, ever since she was taken from them when she was twelve and John was sixteen. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice trembling. 

“Harriet, sir.” She keeps her head bowed and doesn’t look him in the eye. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“I don’t know, sir. A year, perhaps. But before, I have served a lot of Alphas. I have training, sir. I will not disappoint you.”

She shifts her legs, deliberatively letting them fall open. She is naked, like all the other slaves John saw in the cages, and her body is a little dirty. 

“How do you want me, sir?” 

The lack of defiance in Harry’s voice breaks John’s heart and he moves closer, sits down next to her but with enough space between their bodies. Harry doesn’t touch - apparently she needs to be given permission. 

“Can you look at me?” he asks and she instantly obeys, her dark-blue eyes dull, not shining with life like John remembers. He wishes the moustache was gone, so she could see his face more clearly, but he can’t take it off. 

Harry looks at him, though her eyes aren’t focussing. Probably, she has been trained to keep her head out of the proceedings, or she has adapted like this for herself. 

John tries again. “Please, look at me. Really look at me, Harry.”

He nickname elicits a reaction - she blinks, her eyes suddenly sharper as they meet his own. 

“John?” 

“Yes, I’ve come-” But he stops when Harry starts shaking her head vehemently, suddenly trembling. 

“No, no, you’re not real, I’m dreaming again, I’m dreaming, don’t be so stupid, Harry,” she murmurs, over and over, her entire body shaking and John has no idea how to react, how to soothe her. 

He reaches out, places his hand on her shoulder and she flinches violently. 

“Sorry, master, sorry,” she repeats, panic in her voice. 

John knows he has to improvise, fast. 

“Stand up, slave,” he commands, without any idea how to snap Harry out of her episode otherwise. Her body goes rigid and after two seconds, she obeys. 

“Sit down next to me. I want to hug you.”

Harry follows his orders and lets him put his arms around her, pulling her close. He hopes his scent will tell her she isn’t hallucinating, that he is real. 

But why should she? She has been a slave longer than she was a child and never did John come to save her. Did she fantasise about it? Did she dream John would find her and rescue her? 

John feels tears rise in his eyes. He did look for her. He was sixteen and clueless, hit dead end after dead end, was almost stabbed trying to get information on Harry, and when he was 18, he gave up. Mourned his sister and joined the military. 

Now, he has a second chance and he will not waste it. 

He spends the hour cuddling with Harry, tells her to relax, tells her he is not going to sleep with her tonight and like always, she obeys. She buries her face in the nape of his neck and it reminds him painfully of Sherlock. 

Will John be allowed back into their flat? Or will John come home to packed bags and Mrs Hudson wanting back his key? 

John hugs Harry closer, not wanting the hour to end. 

*

“I hope the experience was satisfying?“ Wilkes drawls as he slides into a seat next to John at the bar. 

“Very. You’ve won yourself a new costumer, Mr Wilkes.” John smiles. “My colleague is still enjoying himself?”

“He won’t be long. Chose a beautiful slave a few minutes after you. Fresh meat, that one. Barely hit puberty.”

John resists the urge to retch. Or punch Wilkes. He knows Wilder opted for the youngest because she might give him more information, but the image still sits uncomfortably in his mind. 

Wilder joins them soon, smirking broadly. Wilkes buys them a celebratory drink but thereafter excuses himself to welcome a new customer. 

The bar is too full for John and Wilder to engage in real conversation, so they empty their drinks quickly and head out, hail a cab and go back to their rendezvous point at Lubitsch’s flat. 

“It’s Harry,” is John’s opening statement. “I doubt she will go willingly, though.”

“Why?” Lubitsch looks up from the chessboard where Karl is apparently beating him epically. 

“She thought I’m an hallucination. She’s been trained too well. It won’t be easy.”

“Most of them will act like that,” Wilder adds. “I got talking with a teenage girl - not even fourteen yet,” he makes an angry noise, “and she told me that they’re all trained when they get there. And who’s not broken by that will yield to the mediations.”

“What do they give them?” Karl asks, face contorted in disgust. 

“Illegal stimuli, to keep them constantly in heat,” Wilder explains, “and birth control. Some other drugs that make them pliant and willing.” 

“Our plan?” Brady rises from his chair. “Assuming we have one?”

John nods. “Wilder and I will go in tomorrow night. You all will be positioned outside and when you receive our signal, storm the Den. My priority will be to get Harry out of there; but we have to take down Wilkes and the employees as well to free the rest. It’s going to be tricky and dangerous. I didn’t see any guns but I doubt they’re unarmed.”

“Sounds good. Let’s clarify the details.” Lubitsch quickly puts the chessboard away, all too eager to destroy evidence of his failure to Karl’s amusement, and they all sit down to devise a strategy. 

*

Sherlock pours a single cup of tea and his body aches. The Omega in him yearns for his Alpha, for John, but he tries his best to ignore it. He needs to focus on the case; that’s it. That’s his priority. 

The flat feels empty and Sherlock has spent the few hours of sleep his body claimed on the couch rather than the bedroom where everything smells even more of John.

He hears Greg’s footsteps on the stairs and turns another page in the mission report. 

“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” Greg asks, stepping closer. 

“I have a suspect. I thought maybe you wanted to know. I remember you telling me to keep you informed.”

Sherlock doesn’t need to look up to know the DI is narrowing his eyes. 

“I told John he should keep me informed. Where is John anyway?”

Sherlock opts for silence. 

“Sherlock? Where is John?”

“On a mission.”

“What mission?“

“To find his sister.”

“Harry?” A surprised pause, then, “And why are you here and not with him?”

Finally, Sherlock decides to glance up, raising an eyebrow. “I have a case.”

Greg stares, blinks once, twice. “You let John go looking for his sister alone, while you stayed here to solve the top secret case no one will know about once you’ve solved it?”

“Yes.” 

Forgoing to stay calm, the detective explodes. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! You’re the daftest genius I’ve ever met! How could you stay here on a case when John could use your help to find the sister he hasn’t seen in over twenty bloody years!”

Sherlock wants to give Greg the same answer he gave John, that he has a case and that he can’t simply abandon everything, but this time, the reason sounds more like an excuse, lacking in cogency. 

“That’s what I thought,” the DI comments, pacing now. “You know, Sherlock, when I first met John, I thought the two of you were only the result of your pheromones all over the place. But after everything, when he stayed - brilliant. A bloke who puts up with all your quirks, the body parts in the fridge, the experiments, your strange moods, who loves you so much he would die for you-” Greg points an accusing finger at Sherlock, “and you can’t even say three little words to make him happy? And you can’t abandon some puzzle that is of no consequence to national security or the likes of it, to be there for your mate when he needs you most?”

“We’re not mated,” Sherlock states. Being mates means forever, and Sherlock doesn’t believe in forever. It’s a completely illogical concept. 

Greg merely snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. But not for too long - I doubt even John’s patience is infinite. And you don’t want to lose this bloke, believe me.”

“Thank you for this passionate speech; now can we take a look at my prime suspect?” Sherlock deflects, fighting the urge to literally run far away from where the conversation has strayed. 

Greg shakes his head. “Forget it. I’m not helping you in an investigation I have no clearance for anyway before you make things right with John.” 

The DI turns on his heels and is out of the door within the second, leaving Sherlock behind to contemplate. 

John knows him, understands him; he is the only one who ever has. Sherlock doesn’t need to say those three words Greg is apparently obsessed with (which is probably why he has one ex-wife and will be facing another divorce soon) because John knows how he feels. No words necessary. 

John should have known Sherlock would want to finish the case. Perhaps they aren’t as compatible as Sherlock thought. 

The thought hurts and the Omega side of him protests, though Sherlock discards its protests as biologically conditioned responses to the absence of the Alpha whom he shared his heats with. 

Bloody hell, he hasn’t slept more than five hours these past two nights, he can’t remember the last time he ate - he is in no condition to reflect on this. 

With a groan, Sherlock runs his hands over his face and tries to focus on his prime suspect’s file. 

*

Yuri Kapov passes Mycrofts workplace slowly, at the same pace he usually watches over the inmates. Yet this time, when he come level with Mycroft’s chair, he slips a key onto the table. 

Ten minutes later, Mycroft punches out to take a cigarette break - well, in his case more of a cigar break - though instead of opening the door to the library break room, he skips it, aiming for the supply closet. 

The lights of the surveillance cameras in the hallway are all blinking red - a coincidental malfunction.

Mycroft snorts mentally and unlocks the supply closet, slipping inside. He finds a guard uniform including an ID and quickly changes into the clothes. 

He will walk out of Belmarsh prison without trouble and finally breathe the fresh air of freedom again.

*

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes ten in the morning when Sherlock has finally broken into SIS servers to retain the information on Freja Holgersson necessary to solve the case. 

Yesterday, Sherlock came across one mission during which Richard Sterling was supposed to extract a corrupt Swedish general, Godmar Holgersson, whom Sterling shot after the mission went South, instead of saving him. Sherlock doesn’t have all the information necessary to reconstruct what exactly happened in Sweden, though he is sure that Holgersson’s daughter only needed the name of the man who shot her father. 

Petty revenge. Freja might not be the only one with motive but she is the only suspect who is a trained surgeon and could have been able to torture and skin Sterling the way the Met found him. 

Eager, Sherlock opens the file on Freja Holgersson and skims it until he reaches the very end. 

Committed suicide after father’s death in July 2011. Body found and identified by Swedish government.

Sherlock jumps up and kicks his chair in frustration. If Freja was killed in July 2011, she couldn’t have skinned Richard Sterling in May 2012. 

He grabs his violin, mind spinning. He has gone through every suspect, every angle, every possibility, however remote, and nothing - nothing - points to Sterling’s killer. 

Sherlock is halfway through Bach’s Sonata No. 3 in C Major when realisation hits him like a bucket of ice water and his knees almost give out from under him. 

It’s a trap. 

*

John and Wilder make their way downstairs without Wilkes’ interference. The hallway holding the cages is U-shaped, manned by four guards. John proceeds to the far end of the floor, checks his watch. 

Ten more seconds. 

He considers the Omega in front of him, feigning interest. 

Five. 

The guard notices. Approaches. 

Three. 

Two. 

One. 

John moves with lightning speed, fuelled by pure adrenaline, snapping the guard’s neck with a crack. John catches him and puts him down gently onto the floor. 

He hears the second guard shout something, followed by rapidly nearing footsteps. 

John draws his Sig and shoots with deadly precision, thankful for the silencer. The man drops to the ground and John rounds the corner, expecting to see Wilder and Harry in her cage.

Instead, there are five more guards blocking his way and John ducks back behind the wall as the first bullets fly past him, missing him by mere inches. 

He produces a small-scale explosive, curtesy of MI5, and throws it as near to the wall opposite the cages as possible. The bang is loud and will have alerted the customers one floor above them but John hardly cares. MI5 has been notified; there is backup to catch anyone who tries to escape. 

John flings himself around the corner, gun raised. He shoots one guard in the chest, ducks a bullet from the last one standing and is level with the man’s feet. Two quick shots through his kneecaps hurl him to the ground, crying in agony. John kicks the gun away from his grasping hands and knocks him unconscious. 

A glance at the other man shows he is already bleeding out. The three other guards fell victim to the explosive device and for a second, John’s mind flickers back to Sherlock when he sees one man’s intestines scattered on the floor. 

John rounds the second corner carefully, gun raised. 

What he sees forces the breath from his lungs. Wilkes is holding Harry tight, close to his body, a gun pointed at her head. 

“Captain Watson, so nice of you to join us. I didn’t expect five guards to be an obstacle for you.”

“What do you want?” John grits out, gun still in hand. 

“Give the gun to my accomplice, then follow me. You will be glad to know that none of your men were killed; merely injured.”

John hesitates, thinking quickly, though it’s no use. He can’t attack without Wilkes shooting his sister. 

So John relinquishes his Sig to the bloke John recognises as the one guarding the private rooms for the dancers and follows Wilkes up the stairs. 

John takes his chance when he is on the last step. It may be an act of desperation but it’s his only option. 

With two quick blows he regains control of his gun and knocks the bloke out, then fires two more shots at the two men keeping watch over his bound colleagues and finally aims the gun at Wilkes, who looks stunned yet is still smiling faintly. 

“You think that will change anything, Captain Watson?” He adjusts the grip on Harry, pulling her in front of his torso like a shield. 

“What do you want?” John barks, feeling the panic rise in his chest. Harry looks so frightened and confused. 

“Why don’t you drop the moustache, eh? Show your sister who is responsible for her death.”

John growls but rips off the fake beard, searching to catch Harry’s eye and see her reaction. She stiffens suddenly in Wilkes’ arms. 

“That’s right, pet. Your brother. The hero of the revolution; only he couldn’t be bothered to safe you, could he?”

“What do you want?” John asks again, more urgent this time. “Don’t you dare kill her.”

Wilkes laughs out loud, an eerie sound in the empty bar. “Kill her? She’s already dead inside. No, John, this isn’t about her. This is about you.”

“Then let her go!”

“You shouldn’t be pointing weapons or my finger might just slip…”

With a feral growl, John throws the gun to the ground, glaring at Wilkes. The weapon slides across the floor a little, coming to a halt near Wilkes’ feet. “Let her go.”

“So you can charge at me and perhaps get away with nothing more than a scratch? I don’t think so.”

John remains silent, staring at Wilkes, waiting for him to go on, to shoot, anything. 

“You see, John, I’m under orders. Moriarty says hi.”

And before John can process the meaning of Wilkes’ words, the Alpha points the gun at him and pulls the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sorry for the cliffhanger. I know that I am a very evil woman... Next update will follow in a week or week and a half :)
> 
> As always, I live for Kudos and comments! I'm so thrilled because this has received such good reviews so far, I hope I will continue the good work!


	6. An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilkes pulls the trigger but the bullet never hits John.

The gun clicks, no shot ringing out. 

John freezes in a moment of tense surprise until a movement grabs his attention. From behind the bar to their right, Sherlock appears, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

John’s heart stutters for the split of a second. He came. Sherlock came. 

“I’ve always known your intellect to be lacking, Sebastian. Any man used to handling guns would have noticed the difference in weight. But then, you’ve always been a pacifist, haven’t you?”

“Holmes,” Wilkes snaps with enough venom to poison an elephant. “What the hell?”

“I emptied your magazine. Only an idiot leaves his gun unattended for even a second, especially when he plans on taking out a highly decorated Captain that same evening.” 

With a grunt, Wilkes throws the gun to the floor but his grip on Harry doesn’t loosen. John sees how Wilkes shifts his weight – he is up to something. 

Suddenly, Wilkes bows down, snatching up John’s Sig though before he has a chance to aim, John is on him, trying to wrestle the gun out of his grip without hurting his sister in the process. 

John crashes Wilkes’ hand onto his thigh with all the force he can muster, trying to dislodge the gun but a shot is released, ringing out loudly in the room before Wilkes drops the weapon. 

“John!” Sherlock calls out, sounding worried, but John doesn’t stop to see if he is injured. With a few strikes, he renders Wilkes unconscious and his grip on Harry finally slacks. 

Yet, as John’s eyes snap to his sister, all he sees is red. The bullet hit her in the thigh; now blood is running down her naked skin. 

“Shit!” John throws his suit jacket off, then rips his shirt open and presses it on the wound. Harry cries out in pain. “Harry, Harry, listen to me! It’s just a leg wound; you’re going to be alright. I’ll take you to the hospital. You’re safe now, Harry. You’re safe.”

He bandages the wound as well as possible with his shirt, then grabs his jacket and gently eases Harry’s arms through it. She is in shock; her eyes open and unseeing, her muscles tense. 

Once she is haphazardly covered, he scoops her up in his arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, must have freed Lubitsch and the other three agents, for they are on their feet again. 

“Someone call an ambulance,” John orders and he waits long enough for Karl to produce his mobile before he makes his way up the stairs. 

He waits just inside the front door, not wanting to expose Harry to the cold night air outside. The ruffle of a coat announces Sherlock’s arrival but John doesn’t turn, unwilling to face whatever awaits him when he meets Sherlock’s eyes. 

“Is she going to be alright?” Sherlock asks softly. 

“Do you care?” John snaps back, too riled up to rein in his emotions that are suddenly all over the place, now that he is holding his sister in his arms and she is so light that he doesn’t even feel a strain in his arms. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I care about you, John.”

“Well, I’m fine, so thanks for saving the day.”

He hears Sherlock swallow. “It was a trap. The Sterling case. There was no motive behind it other than to distract me, forcing you to walk into this alone.”

The sound of a siren announces the ambulance’s arrival.

John closes his eyes as the meaning of Sherlock’s statement registers. “You’re telling me you only came here because you solved the case?”

“I-”

“Don’t, Sherlock. I’m in no mood for your logic.”

Without glancing at the Omega, John elbows the door open, and meets the medics. 

*

A strange air of melancholy settles over Sherlock that he has never experienced before. He can’t will it away and it drives him even madder than John’s gruff behaviour. 

Sherlock wants the softness to return to John’s eyes, wants the Alpha to caress him again, kiss him, smile at him and the Omega inside of him longs for John’s smell. He follows to the hospital - Lubitsch is kind enough to arrange for him to get there - where Sherlock finds John in the waiting room, staring into space. 

His sister must be in surgery then, for the gunshot wound. 

John doesn’t react to his presence and when Sherlock yields to the impulse to reach out, John almost flinches and withdraws from him. 

Sherlock stays, craving John’s scent, waiting. He keeps his distance when a doctor comes to talk to John and when he walks off to Harry’s room a little while later. 

Sherlock enters briefly, yet the glare John shoots his way suffices to make Sherlock leave the room again. Instead, he takes up residence on a chair and waits. 

He dozes off at some point and the early hustle and bustle of the hospital rises him. Sherlock contemplates his next course of action - simply entering the room again won’t do. So he follows the signs to the cafeteria and buys John tea and a croissant. John loves them but hardly ever indulges himself. 

When Sherlock enters, he notices that John has moved his chair into the far left corner of the room, right next to the window; presumably to give the doctors and nurses some room to operate. 

Sherlock places the cup and the small paper bag with the pastry on the table next to John’s chair and takes a seat in the second chair. He inhales the smell of disinfectant, laced with Alpha pheromones and his body relaxes for a fraction. 

“She’s malnourished and dehydrated,” John explains after an endless stretch of silence. “The X-ray shows a few healed fractures from years of abuse and they’re keeping her sedated for the withdrawal from the heat catalysts.“

Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. John is hurting and he longs to soothe his Alpha but John’s body language is dismissive; he clearly wouldn’t welcome any contact. 

“Do you need anything?” Sherlock asks instead. 

John doesn’t meet his eyes. “I need to be alone with my sister.”

Sherlock nods even though John probably can’t see him, then rises. “That’s tea and a croissant. You should eat.”

It is a strange reversal of their usual roles, he muses, and he believes he sees the corners of John’s mouth twitch before he turns and leaves the room. 

He makes his way to the cafeteria to get himself some tea. A newspaper catches his attention - the front page sports a large picture of John, carrying his jacket-clad sister out of the Den, all underneath the headline “ _CAPTAIN WATSON SAVES LONG-LOST SISTER - PROSTITUTION RING EXPOSED!_ ” 

Brilliant. Utterly brilliant. 

The media attention does nothing to improve Sherlock’s mood and as it turns out, matters are about to become even worse for in the later morning hours, Homi Bhabha himself appears to visit John and to hold a press conference. 

Sherlock keeps his distance at both, watching Bhabha talk about traditionalist inclinations gone too far, about criminals that refuse Omegas their basic human rights this society fought so hard for, about how the government would show no mercy and persecute according to the newly established laws, how the brave actions of Captain Watson and his comrades saved over forty Omegas who will now receive medical as well as psychiatric attention. 

Sherlock doubts Harry Watson will ever be the same again. If she has indeed been a slave for over twenty years as Greg suggested, she will have internalised the principles of slavery far too deeply as to transition back into society within a short period of time. If she manages to do so at all. 

He wants to point this out to John yet somehow he fears John might be angered by this simple fact. 

“Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock turns towards a young Omega - mid-twenties, spent her life in slavery, freed after the Fall, enjoys her freedom, cat-owner - and raises an eyebrow. 

“The Minister would like a word with you.”

Intrigued, Sherlock nods and follows the blonde woman. Bhabha meets him in an empty conference room with a pained smile. 

“Mr Holmes, I’m sorry we meet again under such dire circumstances.” 

“Prime Minister.” Sherlock shakes the proffered hand only because Bhabha took his side and has been a loyal friend of John’s for the past years. 

“I’ve already spoken to John; I do hope his sister makes a fast recovery.”

“Considering the circumstances that hope is rather optimistic.”

Bhabha huffs. “True, but who are we if we can’t believe that tomorrow will bring a better world?”

Sherlock has no answer to this platitude.

“I’m afraid I have another piece of information, Mr Holmes.“ Bhabha sighs and Sherlock can tell that something grave has transpired, though nothing prepares him for the Prime Minister’s next words. “As it appears, your brother has escaped from Belmarsh prison.”

Sherlock splutters embarrassingly for a brief moment. “How?”

“We are not yet certain though we suspect he had quite a lot of help from the inside.”

“Do you want me to investigate?”

Bhabha shakes his head. “No; at least not until our own resources fail to produce results. Yet if Mycroft Holmes tries to contact you, do inform us immediately.”

“I doubt he will since I am the reason he was in custody in the first place,” Sherlock points out, “though I will tell you in case he chooses to come forward.”

“Thank you,” Bhabha says and it sounds sincere. Well, as sincere as a politician can be. “But now I must depart; John’s discovery has caused a minor uproar in the Omega community as to why the government failed to expose the Den of Inequity sooner.”

Sherlock nods and watches the Prime Minister disappear with the blonde Omega. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him it is past noon, so Sherlock picks up a sandwich from the cafeteria as an excuse to visit John again. 

The Alpha looks more amenable to his presence already and takes the food immediately. 

“Bhabha sought me out,” Sherlock tells him, earning a questioning look. “It would seem that Mycroft has escaped from prison.”

“What? Why? How?” John tenses, food forgotten in his hand. “Will he try to take revenge?”

“I highly doubt it. Mycroft has never been one to hold petty grudges.”

“You brought down his empire. I bet he wouldn’t call that petty.”

Sherlock snorts, chest warming up at the sound of something akin to their usual banter. “No, he will either have left the country by now or won’t until the government stops suspecting him at airports. He has powerful contacts in Europe, from before the civil war. He won’t be found unless he wants that to happen.”

John considers him for a moment, then seems to decide to take his statement at face value. 

“How long will you be staying here?” Sherlock asks tentatively. 

“As long as it takes.”

“For her to wake?”

“Yes.”

Instead of explaining how utterly sentimental that is since Harry is in a medically-induced coma, Sherlock says, “You’ll need clothes. Your laptop. Perhaps a book. I’ll fetch them.”

John’s eyes narrow in surprise but other than that, the Alpha doesn’t react so Sherlock leaves for 221B Baker Street. 

Outside the hospital, he is accosted by the press, the reporters following him to their flat even though he refuses to comment. He grabs what he knows to be John’s favourite and most comfortable clothes, his laptop, its charger as well as the one to his phone and the stack of books from John’s nightstand, then repeats the tedious process of fighting his way through reporters one more time. 

When he opens the door to Harry Watson’s room, he finds Greg sitting in the chair next to John, speaking in hushed tones. 

“I brought the things you needed.” Sherlock is stating the obvious but he has no idea what else to do. The entire situation is beyond him; John’s behaviour is completely unsettling at a much more biological level, upsetting the Omega inside Sherlock. 

“Just put them down somewhere,” John orders, briefly glancing his way and then resolutely focussing his eyes back on his unconscious sister. 

Greg sighs and gets to his feet. “Good luck, mate. Come on Sherlock, I’ll walk you out.”

Sherlock follows willingly. Perhaps Greg has a better grasp on the situation. 

“I’m lost,” he opens once the DI has closed the door behind them. “I can’t deduce what he needs me to do so he can forgive me.”

Greg looks dubious. “Are you saying you were wrong?”

“No. Though I might have been selfish.”

“You should apologise.”

“Will that make him forgive me?”

“Won’t hurt.”

“Greg.” Their eyes meet and the DI’s eyes grow soft around the edges. 

“Alright, I’ll throw you a bone. In my opinion, just keep doing what you’re doing. Be there. Apologise. Bring him tea and food. Show him you care.”

“He knows I care.”

“Does he?”

“I’m sure he told you.”

Greg sighs heavily. “I’m guessing he has doubts after what happened. Good luck.”

Without any other explanation, the DI leaves Sherlock alone with his thoughts. 

*

Mycroft is a man with many contacts. He always kept an open mind about those he associated with and while his colleagues shied away from more violent contemporaries, Mycroft opted to pursue even them. 

A wise decision, as it turns out when he is a fugitive and a criminal in the eyes of the government. 

He seeks out Nikolai Luzhin shortly after he escapes prison and slides into the black limousine parked outside Nikolai’s boss’ favourite restaurant. 

“Sir, this is not a taxi, I will have to ask you to leave,” Nikolai tells him in his heavy Russian accent. 

“Dobry wetschir,” Mycroft greets him and their eyes would meet in the rearview mirror if both of them weren‘t wearing sunglasses.  
“Mr Holmes.” The driver inclines his head. 

“I need to call in a favour,” Mycroft tells him in Russian. He always knew being friendly with the Russian mafia would pay off one day. 

Indeed, not even an hour later he is sitting at a table with Sergei Mikhailov, leader of this particular group of criminals. Mikhailov, a tall, muscular man with deep lines from years of living in the shadows and too much cocaine, is an Alpha, just like his partner, Boris Yakov Arshavin, who looks marginally healthier despite the large scar splitting the right side of his face.

It is not uncommon for two Alphas to enter a relationship in Traditionalist circles where Omegas are considered nothing more than slaves to breed. This particular brand of traditionalism never held much appeal for Mycroft who knows that Omegas are much more than birth machines, yet he would never dream of engaging men like Mikhailov or Arshavin in political conversations.

“We knew you’d be coming,” Mikhailov explains. “Kapov’s friend is also our friend.”

“Do you know why this friend has an interest in helping me?”

Arshavin smiles with too many teeth. “He has direct orders from the Kreml, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft raises an eloquent eyebrow, although he is sure that his Russian is good enough that he has not misunderstood the man. 

“Moscow is interested in your services, Mr Holmes. They are prepared to give you political asylum and offer you a job.”

“That is awfully generous of them. What might the catch be?”

“Don’t forget, Mr Holmes,” Mikhailov cuts in, “that you and the Russian Prime Minister shared a cordial relationship before the Reformists took over.”

Cordial. Well, not quite the word Mycroft would have chosen but then Mikhailov doesn’t quite share his vernacular. It is true, however, that under Mycroft’s rule the British Empire and the Russian Union were working well together, not only politically but mostly economically speaking. 

“I assume there is already a plan in place?”

“Of course. You will be taken to the Russian Embassy in London as soon as it is deemed safe. Our organisation will provide you with everything you need in the meantime.”

“That is very generous, Mr Mikhailov.”

“Please, call me Mikhas. All my friends do.” 

Mycroft resists the urge to snort. They are hardly friends - Mycroft simply allowed Mikhailov’s “business” to continue as long as they kept their fingers off government properties. Taking down the mob would have been more trouble than it would have been worth. 

“Thank you then, Mikhas.”

“Can we do anything else for you, Mr Holmes?” Arshavin asks. 

“My assistant, Anthea. She has been sentenced to twenty years in prison after the civil war. If I am indeed to rebuild my career abroad, she will be of tremendous help.”

Mikhas raises his glass, smiling broadly. “Consider it done.”

They clink glasses and Mycroft is unsure whether to be relieved or worried.

*

It takes a lot out of his pride to do as Greg suggested but the need to win John back overrides everything else. Sherlock brings him tea and supper without any superfluous comment, sleeps in the chairs of the waiting room again, then decided to apologise the next morning. 

Sherlock enters the room with yet another cup of tea and two croissants this time. John only spares him a brief glance, nothing more, so Sherlock doesn’t sit down. 

He draws in a deep breath, readying himself. “I should have come with you and helped you find your sister, John. Insisting on working on the case was selfish and inconsiderate of me.” 

No answer, not even a nod. Sherlock leaves, glad for the books he brought for himself the day before. He brings John lunch as well and it goes much as this morning. 

When he enters the room in the evening, though, John deigns him with a longer look, gesturing him to take a seat. Silence falls over them, enveloping them for a long time.

“I was sixteen when she disappeared, she was twelve,” John says suddenly and Sherlock feels inexplicably grateful for the sound of his voice. “My parents weren’t worried, said she probably eloped with some Alpha but I didn’t believe it. Harry and I told each other everything. I spent two years looking for her but it was all in vain. One informant even stabbed me for asking too many questions. Eventually, I gave up, joined the army. I gave up on her, Sherlock. I’m afraid she will never forgive me for that. And I couldn’t begrudge her if she stayed angry with me for the rest of her life.“

Sherlock can’t respond – he has never been the one supposed to comfort another person in distress. He stays, though, offering his presence and hopes it suffices. 

John doesn’t say more, never asks him to leave, so Sherlock stays until the following morning, dozing a bit in the night but mostly watching over John who wakes when the nurse enters to check on Harry’s progress. 

*

It takes John a few moments to gather his wits. The strain of the past days has dulled his senses and reflexes, though when the nurse addresses him he is again fully alert. 

“The drugs are clearing out of her system nicely, Captain,” she informs him. “We might be able to wake her in two or three days.”

He nods his thanks, then watches her leave. His eyes land on Sherlock who is still sitting in the second chair. 

“What are you still doing here?” John can’t help asking. “I’m sure there are more important things that require your attention, aren’t there? An experiment, perhaps? A case?” He can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

Sherlock has surprised him, if he is completely honest, though. Bringing him tea, being there… The detective makes it hard for John to be angry with him. 

“You’re more important, John,” he replies, sounding so sincere that John almost believes him. 

“Are you sure you’re not simply saying that because you deduced it’s what I want to hear?”

Sherlock looks upset suddenly, pained even. “No. These past days… I’ve missed you. I didn’t want to miss you but the ache wouldn’t go away. I –“ suddenly, Sherlock jumps to his feet and starts pacing,“- damn it, John, I have no idea what I’m talking about! I’ve never experienced so many emotions at once and I can’t find a way to detach myself from them! It’s frustrating!“ 

John watches the outburst, his expression blank, curious where Sherlock is going with this. A large part of him wants to believe that Sherlock is not just saying what John wants to hear so he’ll forgive him, that Sherlock is completely honest with his feelings for once. 

“I…” Sherlock begins yet starts over. “Insisting on finishing the case was selfish. I was blind to your needs when I should have been supportive.”

Sherlock’s tone suggests he has reached the end of his deliberations and locks eyes with John. He has never seen the detective look so lost before, perhaps except for one day inside the Resistance headquarters which seems like a lifetime ago. The thought takes John back to the beginning, to his first impressions of the man he has grown to love.

“I doubt it’s in your nature to be supportive, Sherlock.”

“I can be. For you.”

John can’t stand the look in Sherlock’s eyes anymore. He knows that if he stays, he will crumble underneath that stare; if he stays, he will fold, forgive Sherlock and take him back and nothing will have changed. 

“Supportive isn’t good enough. I need some air.” He rises abruptly, aiming to pass by Sherlock but once he does, there is a hand on his wrist, stopping him. John turns to find blue eyes looking down at him desperately, raw with emotion. 

“Don’t go, John! I love you, don’t go!” It comes out in a rush and John’s widening eyes must have tipped Sherlock off to what just escaped his lips.

John watches as an array of feelings flicker across Sherlock’s face - surprise, confusion, resolution - and then the Omega squares his shoulders and looks straight at him, gaze unwavering.

“Yes. I love you. I thought you knew, that it was obvious, but apparently I need to say it out loud for it to become real. I love you, John.” A brief pause. “And I’m sorry.“ 

It must have taken everything in Sherlock to express these sentiments, and to say he is sorry atop everything else. John knows deep inside that he is being sincere - this is not some form of manipulation. Sherlock isn’t saying these things because he wants John’s forgiveness. Sherlock is saying it because it is true. 

John can’t do anything but kiss him, deep and desperate, laden with emotion and Sherlock melts against him, grabs his shoulders and gives himself over to John with every cell of his body. 

The Alpha inside of him purrs when he reunites with his Omega after such a long time apart. Almost the longest time they spent apart ever since they met, actually.

John would love to claim Sherlock right here and now but he remembers they are in a public place, so he steers Sherlock through the room and pulls him into his lap on one of the chairs. 

Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder and inhales deeply, baring his neck in the process and John accepts the invitation. He bites down hard and relishes the shudder that goes through Sherlock’s body. 

They stay there, scenting each other, basking in each other’s presence, for what feels like forever and despite his sister’s tragedy, John is happy with his arms wrapped around Sherlock. 

It doesn’t take more than half an hour before their mixing scents are enough to drive them mad with need. 

“Let’s take a break,” John decides and Sherlock hums as a way of answering. 

They have barely shut the door to 221B when they devour each other, ripping their shirts off, both starved for contact. John runs his hands across planes of pale skin, plays with Sherlock’s nipples and teasingly cups his erection through his pants. 

“Knot me, John,” Sherlock growls which goes straight to John’s already aching cock, then proceeds to shed the rest of their clothes as they climb the stairs to their bedroom.

“I want to taste you first,” John says and pushes Sherlock face first onto the bed. He is on him immediately, mouthing Sherlock’s pulse point for a moment while grinding his cock into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. His cock twitches when he feels the lubrication against his glans. 

John shuffles lower and traces Sherlock’s spine with his tongue, leaving behind a wet trail. His hands cup firm cheeks and pull them apart, revealing the puckered and shiny hole. John laps at it teasingly for a second before dipping his tongue inside, revelling in the taste of Sherlock. He presses his lips against the perineum eagerly, sucking lightly.

Sherlock moans, pushing back, trying to fuck himself on John’s tongue but hands on his cheeks stop him as John drinks in the scent and the taste of Sherlock’s body. He is aware that he spills slick everywhere, not managing to swallow everything. It’s dirty and primal and John can’t get enough. 

“Please,” Sherlock gasps, arching his back, grinding his erection into the mattress. “Take me, John, take me now!”

John was never able to resist it when Sherlock begs, so he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with his cock, thrusting in in one brutal motion. His knot is already swelling without John fighting it and he shoves in harder, making Sherlock feel it against his arse. 

“Yes, knot me,” he gasps, bearing down so wantonly that John can’t deny him. 

He is fully sheathed after a few more thrusts, then pushes Sherlock down into the mattress, covering his slim body with his own more muscular one. Sherlock moans appreciatively, unable to move underneath John’s weight. 

John moves his hips shallowly, careful to keep the knot inside Sherlock’s hole. It’s torturously slow but it burns so good after days without touching each other. 

He bites Sherlock’s neck, then licks the bruises, sucks on his pulse point and keeps up his rhythm until Sherlock clenches around his knot, finding release. John inhales the smell of the content Omega underneath him and his orgasm claims him moments after Sherlock’s did. 

He collapses onto Sherlock, rolling them to their side, keeping their bodies knotted together. 

John wraps his arms around his partner, kissing his shoulder and then nuzzling his neck from behind. 

“I love you, too,” John murmurs and revels how Sherlock leans back into his body, how things between them are good again. 

*

Even though he would never admit to it, Mycroft is rather impressed when not even twenty-four hours after his conversation with Mikhas the door to his momentary safe house opens and Nikolai enters. Anthea, still tall and beautiful but with more prominent cheekbones and dulled hair, follows in his wake. 

They don’t hug or indulge in any other form of overly sentimental social rituals. She nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He nods back, sure that his eyes betray him, showing how glad he is to know his best soldier at his side again. 

“We have to move you to another house,” Nikolai explains in Russian. “We can’t be too careful.”

“I travel lightly nowadays,” Mycroft jokes and swiftly follows the driver out into the cool night air. 

*

When John visits the still comatose Harry on her fifth day in hospital, the doctor asks to see him. 

“We will wake her from the coma tomorrow morning. It’s essential you are there as a member of her family. We will also have a therapist ready so we can make the transition as smooth as possible for her.”

John nods, both looking forward to and dreading Harry’s awakening at the same time. He has no idea what to expect. Will she even realise it is real and not simply another hallucination?

Sherlock accompanies him the following morning, yet chooses to wait outside. He has been conducting experiments these past few days but then John didn’t spend all his time with Harry either. 

It will take a while for Harry to wake after they reversed the coma, John is aware of that, so he settles into the chair he considers his and waits. 

Harry wakes slowly, blinking her eyes open which dart across the room, clearly confused. 

“Hello Harry,” John says as softly as possible. “You’re in a hospital. You’re safe. I’m really John, your brother. I’m here.”

Harry turns towards him and considers him for long, torturous seconds. Her gaze is clearer; obviously the drugs are out of her system by now. John hopes that will make it easier.

“John?” she croaks and he moves closer, sitting on the edge of the mattress and takes her hand into his own. 

“Yes, it’s me.”

She blinks at him, then screws up her face in disbelief. Her gaze flickers from him to the room at large, taking in the situation. 

“You’re in a hospital. You have been here for six days already. They needed to flush the drugs out of your system.”

“No more drugs?” Harry asks faintly. 

“No. No more.”

Harry processes the news, swallows, thinks. It takes a lot out of John to merely sit without fidgeting as he is incredibly nervous. 

“How old are you?” Harry asks out of the blue. 

“Thirty-eight. You’re thirty-four.”

A pained sound rises in Harry’s throat, high-pitched and dreadful, as she realises the extent of what John’s answer entails and she starts shaking all over her body, her breath coming faster. 

“Harry, listen to me, it will be alright, you hear me? You’re safe now; no one can hurt you,” John tries to calm her down but it is no use. He has seen many panic attacks in his life but seldom one as severe as this. 

He presses the emergency button and moments later, a nurse bursts into the room - Bhabha probably ensured there would always be someone near. John barks out orders and the Beta obeys immediately, even though John has no jurisdiction.

Only when Harry is sedated does John notice Sherlock’s presence in the room. 

“Panic attack when she realised how much time has passed,” John explains and flings himself into the chair. 

“What do you need?” Sherlock asks and John shoots him a grateful look. 

“Stay.” 

Sherlock nods and pulls up a second chair. 

*

John reduces the hours he volunteers at the clinic and the SIS allows him to cut back his hours as well, so he can spend a lot of time with his sister over the next few weeks. 

It’s a slow process. Harry still panics quickly, even though the therapist clearly helps. John does what he can, telling Harry about the changes the world has undergone, about the Fall, about his role in everything. About Sherlock. 

They tackle this in little bites; too much information upsets Harry but John has soon figured out where her limits are.

Five days after Harry woke up, Sherlock has his first new case. Well, the first new case he deemed interesting enough to take on. John tags along to the crime scene, if just to spend more time with his partner, yet he ends up being rather helpful when the victim seems to have been shot by a sniper from considerable distance. 

It’s the middle of the night and Sherlock sends him home while he wants to seek out different members of the homeless network. John has no doubt that Sherlock will spend most of the night working on the case and not in John’s bed, which is why he doesn’t wait up. 

John is surprised when he wakes a while later to Sherlock slipping in under the covers. 

“Sherlock?“

“Go back to sleep. I solved it - jealous ex-lover with military training. Lestrade has been informed.”

John pulls Sherlock closer, half on top of him like always and Sherlock buries his head in the crook of John’s neck. As always. 

“Tell me all about it tomorrow,” John mumbles, kissing Sherlock’s hair and drifting off again, a warm feeling in his chest.

*

Mycroft and Anthea both perk up when they hear footsteps. 

It is much too late for anyone to seek shelter underneath this particular bridge, especially since one homeless woman has already made herself at home on the bench near the water. 

Mycroft strains his ears - he hears voices, but he is too far away to make out anything specific except that the new arrival is male and that the homeless woman answers him. He won’t draw nearer; the risk of the man discovering him is far too great and he won’t be thwarted so close to the end of their game of hide and seek. 

For the past week and a half, Anthea and he have been constantly moving, aided by Mikhas and his organisation, thus avoiding detection. 

The man leaves abruptly and everything is quiet again for several minutes. The buzz of Mycroft’s disposable phone almost startles him. 

_Everything is in place._

He glances at the text. “It’s time,” he tells Anthea and they emerge from their hiding place, passing the homeless woman who is either feigning sleep or snoring genuinely and loudly. 

The sleek black car of Nikolai awaits them. Anthea hold his door open and slips in after he has entered the car. 

“Ready, Mr Holmes?” Nikolai asks in Russian. 

Mycroft nods, feeling the gravity of the situation weigh on him. Never one for sentimentality, the sensation is rather uncomfortable. 

“Take us to the Russian Embassy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there, no one needs to kill me… Everything’s alright! Well, as alright as things can be with Mycroft seeking political asylum with the Russians. *shudders* 
> 
> The next chapter might take a while. It’s getting complicated, plot-wise, and furthermore, I SHOULD be writing an essay. On Buffy the Vampire Slayer, fyi. So yeah, it’s quite distracting… 
> 
> Also, you can find me on [tumblr](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/) now! Don't be shy and say hi :)


	7. The Second Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles with his sister’s mental state. Mycroft finds himself inside the Russian Union’s government, trying to keep the Eastern Empire from crumbling down around him while New Britain has enough problems of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for the delay! My Muse had more fun with Harry and Draco for a while, despite the brilliant third season of Sherlock… But here I am again!
> 
> All the love to my brilliant beta [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya), my conductor of light who keeps me on the right path! 
> 
> **Warning:** Politics ahead! I’ve done some research yet I don’t claim economical or political accuracy for anything. Because global economy is confusing…
> 
>  **Timeline info:** It’s June 2012 and there’s a large time gap near the beginning, so we will find ourselves two years after the election of Homi Bhabha.

In the first week of June, Mycroft and Anthea exit the Russian Embassy and slide into a non-descript car, which will take them to Sergei Mikhailov’s private jet. Their destination: Moscow, heart of the disintegrating Russian Union. 

The bright sunlight is fading, slowly replaced by dusk. They will reach the jet under the cover of darkness.

So far, knowledge of their whereabouts has not reached the public and Mycroft intends to keep it that way until he is safe on Russian soil. Having had an eye on the news ever since his imprisonment, Mycroft knows that Russia only dares to grant him asylum since New Britain is in no condition to demand his extradition. 

As far as Mycroft is able to gather, the new government has manoeuvred itself into a tight corner, and will be standing on the brink of a financial crisis within the next twelve months. It is rather unfortunate that the country’s largest backer is Russia. There will be problems. 

Thankfully, Mycroft has both the experience and the connections to mitigate the situation, ensuring that New Britain as well as the Russian Union emerge unscathed and as well as circumstances will permit. 

Yet there are still doubts gnawing at the corners of his mind as to why he is here, on his way to another country. It all seems to lead back to Yuri Kapov’s friend, who happens to be a friend of the Kreml’s. Mycroft doubts it was Prime Minister Pyotr Orlov’s idea to transfer him across the ocean and into Moscow, which begs the question: What interest does this friend have in setting Mycroft Holmes free?

He huffs, taking his last looks at London through tainted windows while the car continues, the last rays of sunlight disappearing from the city.

*

“Where will I go, John?” Harry’s dark-blue eyes are questioning, full of fear and insecurity. 

“You’re not healed yet, Harry –“

“The doctor mentioned they could release me soon,” she argues tentatively and John closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

“I know, Harry. We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

Harry nods immediately, then shakes her head, hands tightening their grip on the sheets of the hospital bed. “N-no,” she stutters, voice wavering. “You’ve been evading my questions for days now. Doctor Francis said I have to – I’m allowed to, to ask.”

John swallows around the lump in his throat, cursing whoever trained his sister to be such an obedient Omega who caves whenever an Alpha is in the room, and cursing himself for exploiting this fact to avoid uncomfortable topics. 

“I’m sorry,” John says finally, unsure how to tell his long-lost sister that he has no idea where she will live. “I’m working on it, alright? I promise I will tell you as soon as I know something.”

“What about Mum and Dad?” 

“They’re both too old to take care of you, darling. You know that, don’t you? They need care themselves.”

Harry nods and pulls the blanket tighter around her. “I’m tired, John.”

“Then I’ll let you sleep. I’ll see you soon, Harry.” 

He kisses her forehead, ensuring that she can see him move towards her slowly and prepare for the action. 

Outside the room he collapses in a chair and runs his hands over his face. He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting in the exact same position before a familiar spicy-sweet smell makes his nostrils flare. 

“How is she?” Sherlock asks softly, although he must have already deduced everything from John’s body language. 

John leans back, eyes turned towards the ceiling as if it held the answers to his troubles. “She wants to leave the hospital.”

“And go where?”

“She keeps asking.”

“And you don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“Only I think you do know.”

John doesn’t answer.

“All the other Omegas you freed are going to live in the nursing home. It would do Harry good. She would receive care, be around others who share her fate, could find her way slowly back onto her feet and perhaps even back into society. It’s the logical conclusion yet you refuse to acknowledge this. What I can’t discern is why.” 

A smile tugs at the corners of John’s mouth when he hears the frustration in Sherlock’s voice. Yes, the puzzle of sibling relations. Of course, with a brother like Mycroft, Sherlock’s image thereof would be somewhat lacking. 

“She’s my responsibility,” John explains, his voice eerily calm. “Handing her off to a home feels like I’m cheating my way out of caring for her. Perhaps I should be the one to nurse her back to health. I’m her brother. I’m the one who gave up on her.”

Sherlock takes a seat next to him. “You broke her out of a brothel, John. Besides, why should you sacrifice your life to take over the work of a trained professional?”

“I know, I know, alright! This isn’t about what’s logical; this is about my responsibility as her brother!”

A sigh tells him his partner is growing bored with their conversation and John can’t blame him. For days now his mind has circled around the same lines again and again, trying to find a solution. 

“Ask the psychiatrist, what’s her name? See what she thinks. Isn’t she the undisputed authority when it comes to your sister’s health?” Sherlock suggests and even though he is clearly eager to resolve the topic, John has to agree with him. 

Which is why he makes an appointment with his sister’s psychiatrist who tells him in no unclear terms that in her professional opinion, putting Harry into the controlled environment of the nursing home for former sex slaves is the best option available. 

“So that’s decided, then?” Sherlock states more than asks that evening when John fills him in during supper. 

John swallows and takes another bite of his eggs. 

“You will be able to visit her, won’t you?”

John nods. 

“She will have round-the-clock care, won’t she?”

John nods. 

“Well?”

He meets Sherlock’s eyes and nods for a third time, this time a little surer of the decision than before. 

“Good,” his partner smiles, “now you can finally help me find a new case!”

*

 _One year later - August 2013_

The talk show logo flitters across the screen, the suspenseful theme sounding from the speakers until the image clears, showing Joel Norton, a lively Alpha nearing fifty, sitting on a chair next to a large sofa. 

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Joel Norton special, ‘The Years of Change’. It’s exactly twenty-four months after Homi Bhaba has been elected the first Omega Prime Minister –“ applause from the audience interrupts the host briefly, “- and New Britain is struggling in the aftermath of the Revolution. Please welcome my very political guests of the evening, Prime Minister Homi Bhaba himself and Kevin Watmough, leader of the opposition.”

Thundering applause greets the politicians. Both look healthy and rested, though this might merely be the effect of the magic the make-up department worked on them. 

“So, Prime Minister,” Norton begins after the exchange of polite greetings, “what is your resume two years after the election?”

Bhabha smiles. “An optimistic one. As of last month, literacy amongst Omegas has reached seventy per cent with almost all Omegas under the age of eighteen being able to read and write. Our employment incentive measures have yielded results and provided former slaves with jobs and an income while granting tax advantages to the enterprises recruiting untrained Omegas. And above all: We now live in a country where all people are equal, regardless of their biology.”

Another rumble of applause goes through the crowd and Norton turns to his second guest, shaking his head with a weary smile. 

“Something to add, Mr Watmough?”

“Oh, many a thing. I mean, I enjoy the symmetry of having instated Irene Adler as your Home Secretary and Marc Thoreau as your Secretary of State, Prime Minister, and your endeavour to change the natural order of the world are inspiring. However, I can’t help but wonder whether you have ever considered the economical ramifications of your campaigns?”

“I have, indeed,” Bhabha answers calmly. 

“Surely, sir, it hasn’t escaped your notice that the national debt will reach staggering percentages within just a few months – almost one hundred per cent of the GPD. My party has asked you before and I will ask again in this environment: What are your strategies in the fight against the threatening financial crisis?”

“Now, now, there’s no need of fear-mongering, Mr Watmouth. New Britain is in no danger of such a crisis.”

“Oh please, Minister, explain,” Watmough drawls, sarcasm rolling off his tongue like honey. 

“The government is already devising strategies to combat the growing debt. I know it won’t be popular but we are considering implementing a new tax for wealthy individuals-“

“Alphas and Betas, you mean-“

“Please let him finish, Mr Watmough,” Joel Norton cuts in and Bhabha shots him a quick smile. 

“Aside from a new tax and cutting the state’s expenses, another option would be to default. There are currently three task forces at work, trying to determine the best cause of action.”

“Where would you think cutbacks can be made, Prime Minister?”

Bhabha sighs, his jaw clenching almost unnoticeably.

“There are several areas, some of which might entail less pleasant consequences for New Britain’s citizens than others.”

“In other words, you can’t reduce military expenses for there are still enough riots to necessitate every single soldier and operative. Also, cutting into the educational sector is too early and would endanger the literacy of many Omegas, just as decreasing benefits would mean a lot of Omegas would suffer from lack of employment and health care.” 

Watmough shifts on his spot on the sofa, leaning back against the cushions.  
“Which means that you either have to raise taxes or default. Though, please remind me again, Minister: Which country do we owe most our money to?”

Bhabha’s expression hardens as he realises which card his opponent is playing. “That would be the Russian Union, I presume.”

“Indeed. The same Russian Union who is losing satellite state after satellite state to revolution, whose economy is becoming less and less stable and who will insist on being reimbursed from New Britain, especially when the default hinges on reformist policies favouring Omegas?” 

“What are you implying?” the Prime Minister barks, his annoyance with the Alpha showing clearly. 

“That, should Britain really default, we would be in great danger of an invasion.”

Norton’s shrill laughter catches everyone’s attention. “Surely that won’t happen now, would it?”

Watmough raises an eyebrow. “Considering the Empire has invaded debtor countries before to recover her money, for instance Egypt in 1882, I wouldn’t bet on the Russian Union’s benevolence in this reg-“

The television screen switches off, the colourful picture replaced by a pitch-black screen. 

John throws the remote back onto the coffee table in front of him. Keeping up with current events is turning into a depressing affair. It seems as though the Reformists’ hard work has been in vain. Yes, they have equality now, their colonies are finding their own way on the world’s stage and Omega Empowerment spreads further and further every passing day…

Yet a country can’t live off idealism alone. 

John has seen Homi Bhabha a few days ago when he dropped by the care home to check on both John and his sister, not as Prime Minister but as a friend. 

“How are things really?” John asked outside Harry’s room. 

Bhabha let his head fall back against the hospital wall in the deserted corridor, sighing as though the world was bringing him down.  
“Not well. We had to launch every single campaign that we did, John, I hope you see that.” John nodded. “But the opposition is right. We can’t continue spending money like this and I hate to think of what might happen when we’re implementing counter measures.”

John looks back at the telly and groans in exasperation, trying to marshal his thoughts, which are circling back to phrases like _invasion, default, Russian Union_ until his head is spinning and he can’t supress a shudder. 

*

A week later, Greg hands Sherlock a compelling case that takes the detective ages to solve. John tags along as he always does, plays mediator between his partner and potential witnesses and after a few days, John catches the first hint of Sherlock’s scent intensifying. 

John’s, “You’re going into heat” goes ignored, like it usually does during cases. Yet when two more days have passed and John can see Sherlock trembling every now and again, the Alpha in him has to put his foot down. 

By the time their investigation requires them to finally return to 221B, there is sweat on Sherlock’s brow. 

“Sherlock –“

“We haven’t solved the -“

“Screw the case, Sherlock!”

“There’re lives at risk,” he snaps back. “Isn’t that always your argument, John?”

Since apparently, reasoning with Sherlock won’t change the situation, John changes tactics and in one swift movement, he pushes him against their flat door. 

“You’re hurting yourself and I won’t allow it.” 

Sherlock wants to protest but whatever he intended to say morphs into a low moan as his erection brushes against John’s hip. His blue eyes are blown with desire and finally, he gives into his body’s urges. 

“Make it quick,” Sherlock pants, ever the romantic, but John obliges, the Alpha in him urging him to take care of his Omega. John walks them over to the sofa and spins Sherlock around, bending him over the backrest. John covers Sherlock’s back with his body immediately, grinding his hard cock against Sherlock’s arse and relishes the sound that escapes the detective. 

John makes quick work of their trousers and pants, opting to let them pool around their ankles instead of taking them off. John pulls Sherlock’s cheeks apart, drinking in his scent before he licks a single stripe up the cleft that has Sherlock twitch and his breath speed up even more. 

“John,” Sherlock pleads, tone both impatient and aroused. John smiles to himself as he lines up his erection and pushes in. For all his defiance that this wasn’t necessary, Sherlock is soon pushing back wantonly, encouraging John to shag him harder, _faster, yes, John, yes_.

It is messy and rushed and leaves them both a sweaty mess where they collapsed on the floor. All too soon, Sherlock shakes his head, jumps to his feet (and almost stumbles over the trousers still entangled with his limbs) and crosses the room to get to where clues are littering their living room wall. 

John sighs. Life with Sherlock Holmes has not become easier over the past year. 

His heats are still erratic and will probably always be, which is to be expected after years of inhibitor abuse. Sherlock still tends to ignore his body while on a case, yet John never lets him get away with it. 

Sherlock Holmes is still brilliant, still the Rising Hero, with John at his side during most cases. He visits Harry as often as he can – which unfortunately is once a week at the most when he is lucky – and trains groups of the armed forces twice a week (or once, depending on the cases) and still helps out at the free clinic as often as he can. 

And he swears to God, if one more patient asks him for an autograph, he will stage an attack on a newspaper building. He has enough friends in the SIS to make it work, mind you. 

At least, life is never boring. Harry is improving, yet overcoming years of trauma and abuse will take time. There are some moments when John doubts she will ever be able to live on her own. Whenever John brings up the topic, Sherlock holds his tongue but John knows exactly what he means to say. 

Meanwhile, Greg has divorced Judy after Sherlock deduced for the third time that she is having an affair. “Why can’t you just fuck off, Sherlock?” Greg asked after that particularly hurtful deduction (because why should Sherlock Holmes ever exercise tact?). “You will catch on sooner or later and when you do, your detective work will suffer. I am saving the Met a few embarrassing investigation reports.”

Greg has started dragging John off to the pub more often lately, which never fails to make Sherlock grin and mutter something about “midlife crisis”. 

At 39, John might be prone to one as well, if it weren’t for the rise in London’s crime rate as of late – especially hate crimes. Something is going on but Sherlock hasn’t been able to put his finger on it. 

And sometimes when John watches the telly, he catches images of Mycroft Holmes in the background of the Russian Prime Minister, and wishes New Britain weren’t so economically unstable. Then, they could demand his extradition and John wouldn’t have to look at the face of the man who destroyed his partner’s youth and childhood because Mycroft would rot in solitary confinement for the rest of his life. 

Marc Thoreau has rather loud opinions on the matter, but there is nothing to be done. War with Russia over Mycroft Holmes? Not worth it.

*

Mycroft has always enjoyed a busy life. As leader of the British Empire, it was seldom that he had to endure boredom, yet as advisor to the Kreml, he sometimes wishes for more reprieve. 

The world’s map is like a chessboard in his mind and right now, the Russian Union is loosing. Satellite states are rebelling – however, Mycroft only wields power for so much damage control. If the people want independence, exerting brute military force will only make them crave freedom more. 

Instead, Russia is negotiating treaties with each country, still binding them economically and ensuring their dependence without propagating it. Mycroft is rather proud of himself, especially since these treaties settle any territorial disputes which might erupt, thus preventing full-out civil wars between the new states. 

However, so much conflict in so many corners of the enormous country that is the Russian Union will take and is already taking its toll. France and the rest of Europe smile down on their neighbour, delighting in seeing the one major power in the world that still holds onto Alpha supremacy crumble. 

France in particular is helping minor states in their rebellion and frankly, Mycroft wouldn’t be surprised if, over the next few months, someone staged a coup d’état. But Prime Minister Orlov is well-protected, so Mycroft doesn’t worry excessively. 

He has never met the ominous “friend” of the Kreml who ensured his freedom and the missing information is gnawing at his mind. Of course, he is the most skilled political diplomat Europe has seen in the past years and without him, Russia would be left with a lot less after this period has passed. 

Still, the unease won’t leave Mycroft’s mind. 

*

John and Sherlock are enjoying a lazy Sunday at 221B. After a luxurious round of morning sex, John cooked breakfast and then migrated to his laptop to update his blog, which is receiving more hits than ever, while Sherlock is conducting strange experiments featuring new kinds of tobacco ash. John will never understand how tobacco ash manages to hold his partner’s interest for so long. 

John is mulling over his conclusion when his phone rings. Checking the caller ID confirms his first thought. 

“We need you,” Greg says as a way of greeting. “Can you come?”

“Hang on.” John gets up and finds Sherlock in the kitchen. The detective takes one look at John’s expression and the phone in his hand before nodding. 

Moments of non-verbal communication like this never fail to make John embarrassingly giddy. 

“We’ll be there. Text me the address.”

“You won’t regret it,” the DI promises before hanging up, leaving John to change into clothes more decent than his dressing gown.

As it turns out, Greg wasn’t lying. 

Donovan is the one to welcome them and bring them into the building – apartment block, not too cheap, not too fancy – and up to the second floor which is swarming with officers who move out of the way immediately when they catch sight of John and Sherlock. 

Greg is looking grim when they enter and John can’t fault him for that. The victim is a female Beta, probably in her early thirties, lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, which has just stopped seeping from her open stomach. 

“When was she found?” he asks while Sherlock’s eyes are scanning the room. 

“About an hour ago; her brother came to surprise her. He must have just missed the murderer.”

“He didn’t,” Sherlock says, “the balcony door is open even though the victim isn’t dressed to go outside. The killer heard the brother come in and panicked. It’s only a two-storey jump.”

Greg blinks. “What else can you tell us already?” 

Sherlock sweeps the room one last time before focussing on the DI. “There was no struggle which means she didn’t see it coming. Also no forced entry – she knew the killer might be one explanation; however, this woman works at a strip club and probably supplements her income via prostitution so all the murderer had to do was make an appointment. Find her calendar and you will have your killer.”

An emphatic, “Brilliant” escapes John before he can stop himself. Greg only looks confused. 

“How could you possibly know she’s a prostitute?”

“We passed her bedroom on the way inside – there is a bag on the floor containing a selection of different condoms; now if she had a boyfriend she would only need one kind, wouldn’t she? Also her closet was open, showing several distinct fetish costumes. Over there,” he glances at a shelf at the wall, “is her CD collection, Classic Rock Themed, yet one part of them doesn’t match – remixes of popular songs, often used in strip clubs. Obvious.”

Greg sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All right, a client killed her. Why?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the woman on the floor. 

When the detective remains quiet for a full minute, John exchanges an uneasy glance with Lestrade. 

“Sherlock?”

“The killer was interrupted. We don’t have all the clues.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I’m not sure.”

“Anything?” Greg buts in. “Any idea?”

“Jealous lover but this wasn’t the heat of the moment.”

Greg raises an eyebrow at John, silently asking him to explain his partner’s deductions. 

“The incision. You won’t achieve such a deep cut with any common kitchen knife. And the angle is strange, almost deliberate.” 

John studies the woman’s open stomach and finds himself transported back in time when this was a regular occurrence, finding women eviscerated in their flats. The only thing missing, or pointedly not missing, are her eyes. 

“Have there been any similar murders?” Sherlock asks all of a sudden. 

Greg closes his eyes, heaving a sigh. “Let’s find out.”

Once outside, John notices how Sherlock observes the DI more closely. Greg apparently feels Sherlock’s eyes on him and grimaces.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You were thinking. Stop. It.”

Sherlock merely smirks. John is intrigued. He will have to question Sherlock later on this little exchange. 

*

John stares at the wall littered with pieces of paper, crime scene photos and autopsy reports. 

They have unearthed a pattern. 

Stretching back three months, there have been twelve murders that fit the one of Shaniqua “Sugar” Monroe. Ten of the victims have been gutted with varying degrees of efficiency and proficiency. The other two are only missing their eyes.

All of them are either homeless or were selling their bodies – targets no one would miss too much. Until Shaniqua. Whoever killed her probably didn’t know about her brother. 

“David Caroll is still in jail, right?” John hasn’t been able to think about how much these murders remind him of the serial killer and he is sure that if he made the connection, Sherlock will have, too. 

“Yes.”

“Because this looks like his work, but… in the early stages. As if he’s practicing.”

When he hears Sherlock gasp, John turns around to face him. His blue eyes are wide and there is a smile tugging at his lips. 

“Of course!” Suddenly, Sherlock’s hands are on either side of John’s face and the Omega presses a rushed kiss against his lips. “John Watson, what would I do without you!”

The contact is over as soon as it began. John blinks after his partner who is putting on his coat and scarf. “Come on!”

“Come on where? What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“Don’t you see it? They are practicing! Someone is trying to pick up David Caroll’s work!” John hasn’t seen Sherlock this enthusiastic about a case since that brilliant school teacher disintegrated his victim’s bodies with everyday chemicals. 

“So we’re going…?”

“To find out who visited Caroll in prison!”

“You mean he has a fan?”

“Oh no, John, much better.” And there it is, the slightly maniac grin that never fails to cause John goose bumps. The grin that means something terrifying brilliant is going on. 

“He has an entire fan club.” 

Case in point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, David Caroll! And hello Omegaverse, I’ve missed you! I have no idea how quickly I will manage to update again, but I’ll do my best. Also, I've increased the chapter count. There will be at least 9, if not more. I have plot, just saying. 
> 
> Not much porn in this chapter, sorry. For Johnlock porn, check out [Breathe Again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1338841), post-S3 prompt fill which is basically 3k of smut…


	8. Shifting Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are closing in on David Caroll’s following, and thus they are playing exactly into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! Another chapter! Sorry again for the late update, but in the meantime I have finished one of my longer Harry/Draco AUs and started a Supernatural Season 10 AU…. I blame those respective fandoms for the delay. 
> 
> Take gratuitous porn as a peace offering, dear readers :)
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya). Thank you so much! 
> 
> Re: “Omega/omega” – depending on the POV, it’s either uppercase or lowercase. Don’t be confused. If someone doesn’t see Omegas as equal, they wouldn’t capitalize the word (at least in this verse).

As an Alpha, it is John’s duty to ensure his Omega is cared for. He has no other choice – it is a biological imperative, his senses alerting him to any suffering on Sherlock’s part, urging him to restore his well-being. 

Now when evolution decided this was a great direction to go, it clearly never considered the extent of Sherlock’s stubbornness. 

A full week has passed since Sherlock’s epiphany and by now John feels more like a nurse than a former soldier of the revolution. He has to practically force tea down Sherlock’s throat or else threaten him with an IV drip while they are at the SIS, where John is happily exploiting his connections to gain them access to Belmarsh’s records. 

Currently John is watching Sherlock interrogate one of Caroll’s visitors, Jessica Nielson, and working on a plan that will end in Sherlock actually eating a meal and sleeping more than three hours at once. 

“When did you first meet David Caroll?”

“Can’t you tell? You’re supposed to be a genius.”

“Oh, someone briefed you on me, then?” John can make out how Sherlock narrows his eyes through the one-way mirror. “Alright. You’re a young, single beta who never had any special talents in her life. You are hungry for something, though, anything to lend meaning to your unremarkable existence. You probably met Caroll at a book signing, since you read a lot and would have read about Caroll’s awful work in one of those literary magazines. He saw your hunger and decided to exploit it. Don’t tell me – you believe what he is doing is art?”

“He teaches us to embrace our true nature,” Nielsen snaps, a dark glint in her green eyes.

“Oh yes, by eviscerating innocent people.”

“They are the scum of society. No one’ll miss them.”

“And now you’re a murderer.”

“You can’t prove that, Mr Holmes.”

“Would you bet on that, Miss Nielsen?” Sherlock’s voice is cold and firm, enough to give her pause. 

She is right to hesitate and reconsider. John himself watched an SIS specialist track her on a surveillance feed on the night of the murder Sherlock deduced she had committed. 

When Nielsen remains silent, Sherlock straightens with a grin. “There is enough evidence to hold you and accuse you of murder. Any information you are willing to give us might lighten your sentence, so do talk this over with your government-appointed lawyer. Enjoy prison, Miss Nielson.” 

Sherlock stalks from the room as John keeps an eye on the blonde woman whose brows furrow in worry. 

*

Thirty minutes later and they are back at Baker Street for the first time in two days. John’s neck still hurts after spending a few hours on a sofa at SIS headquarters while Sherlock was busy tracking down IP-addresses of several people who corresponded with Caroll more regularly. 

Sherlock adds bits and pieces to the wall, connects drawing pins with colour-coded garn and John leaves him to it in favour of cooking dinner. 

“She is the leader, John, the first one he recruited. She won’t talk, too indoctrinated, too loyal to the cause. We need to find more…” Sherlock trails off, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. When John refuses to answer, the detective finally looks over to where John is standing in the doorframe to the kitchen, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

John knows he doesn’t need to say anything. Sherlock will figure out his objective and complain, at which point John will argue and honestly, if Sherlock dares to do as much as even _entertain_ the thought of refusing, John will knock him out and tie him to the bed, in a decidedly unsexy manner. 

His resolution must have shown on his face for Sherlock sighs dramatically as if John is asking him to solve the current economic crisis. He does, however, trot into the kitchen and sit down. 

The meal passes in silence. Sherlock seems to be sulking. 

“Let’s make a deal,” John suggests, adding a stern “Sherlock?” when he doesn’t receive a reaction of any kind. 

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“A deal. You are going to sleep for seven hours today and in return you get to do anything you want to me beforehand.”

That has Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Anything?” 

John nods. “Anything.”

“Five hours.”

“Seven.”

“Five and a half.”

“Seven.”

“Six.”

“Sherlock, the alternative is I’m clocking you over the head and tying you to the bed. And I know how to lock the door so you can’t pick it.”

“Improbable.”

“Try me.”

The ensuing staring contest lasts several minutes yet eventually, Sherlock does the wise thing and agrees. 

*

For a second or two John almost regrets the deal. 

“I believe you’re ready,” Sherlock insists, running the soft cloth through his hands. “It’s not like you can’t escape them.”

John swallows. They haven’t been idle these past months. Sherlock proved to be very interested in sexual experimentation and quite liked being tied up from time to time yet John could never bring himself to try it, not with the memories of other times he was bound still fresh in his mind. 

“You did say anything.”

Sherlock’s tone may be firm but his eyes are not. John knows that one word would be enough to make Sherlock ask for something else. However, John did say _anything_ and Sherlock wouldn’t suggest this if he thought John wasn’t ready. 

So John nods and promptly has an armful of eager Omega as Sherlock flings himself on him, capturing his lips in a kiss and pushing him against the bedroom wall. 

John cups the nape of Sherlock’s neck and as soon as he gasps, John moves in on his neck, licking and biting until the spicy-sweet scent of Sherlock’s arousal fills his nose. 

John releases him then and walks over to the bed, undoing the last buttons of his shirt that Sherlock hasn’t opened yet. They undress themselves, eyes never leaving the other’s. When Sherlock’s pants hit the floor, Sherlock bends down to pick up the pile of clothes to throw them into a corner, granting John a view of his arse and the sheen of dampness covering his inner thighs. The image goes straight to John’s cock and he lays down in a hurry. 

Sherlock fastens his wrists to the bedframe, tight enough for him to feel it yet not tight enough to make him panic. And then the detective is on top of him, covering his body with his own, exposed skin on exposed skin. 

John longs to touch but can’t and it seriously messes with his head. The Alpha in him complains until there is a hand on his cock and Sherlock’s scent intensifies, successfully distracting him. 

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Sherlock murmurs somewhere near the burn mark on his pectoral. 

John’s thoughts blur after that. He can feel Sherlock’s tongue on his chest, the slick of him against his cock when Sherlock’s thigh brushes against it and then Sherlock lowers himself down in such a graceful movement that never fails to send a wave of arousal through John yet at the same time, there are ropes around his wrists. Though, whenever John’s mind takes a turn towards darkness, Sherlock whispers in his ear, strokes his side, kisses him breathless. 

Sherlock circles his hips until John can feel his orgasm building, Sherlock’s fingernails digging into his skin. 

“Come for me, John,” he growls, “come inside me.”

John does with a force that knocks the wind right out of him, Sherlock following him over the edge – he must have held off, must have waited. John feels streaks of warm fluid hit his chest and abdomen and wills Sherlock to raise his hips a little to avoid the knot filling rapidly. 

Thankfully the Omega has enough presence of mind to see that being knotted to John while the Alpha is tied to the bed might not be the best idea and flops down next to John on the bed, shuffling closer until his head rests in the crook of John’s neck. 

Even high from orgasm John manages to escape the ropes and finally can put a hand on Sherlock, pull him closer and press a kiss to his hair. 

Cleaning up can wait. 

*

“The opposition is organising, Mr Holmes! It’s time to strike them down!”

Mycroft levels his most disdainful look at Alexey Voevoda, the Russian Union’s Minister of Defence and currently the least intelligent man in this room. 

“And how do you suppose we do that? Brute force?”

Voevoda smirks. “We suspend mobile services. If they can’t text each other or post online, they will be blindsided.”

Mycroft barely resists the temptation to roll his eyes. “Yes, and they will take to the streets. Let them talk as much as they want, Mr Voevoda, let them craft their resolutions and share their stories but under no circumstances force them to unite in person on our streets.”

“What do you suggest, then, Mr Holmes? Do you have the solution to our problems?” the Alpha sneers.

“We need to change our tactics. Using terror and fear is not as effective anymore, which leads me to believe that the revolution’s desperation has reached new heights. They aren’t afraid of death anymore, sir,” Mycroft implores Prime Minister Orlov. “The government needs to change its tune if it wants to avoid civil war. And you know what that did to another Empire not long ago.”

“What are you suggesting, Mycroft?” Orlov demands, clearly losing his patience. 

“We might have to consider giving into some of their demands.”

“Are you insane?” Voevoda shouts. “And what shall we give them? Rights? Or better yet, equality? Freedom?”

Now Mycroft does roll his eyes. “Of course not. Something small to soothe their anger.”

Orlov raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

“A law controlling the treatment of omegas, forbidding their owners to exert disproportionate force and severity. Instate controls. You have the manpower. Use it.”

Silence reigns in the room. 

“Are you sure?” the Prime Minister eventually asks. 

“It won’t give them any rights but improve their situation. They won’t be able to accuse you of not caring.”

Orlov takes a deep breath. “Very well then.”

Mycroft nods and lets himself out of the room. 

*

Russia has changed Mycroft more than he could have ever imagined. Upon his arrival he thought he knew how omegas were being treated in the country and its satellite states and that it wasn’t much different from British practises. 

Oh, it was so much worse. 

It starts when he moves into his rooms in the Kreml district and finds a female omega shackled to a wall of his bedroom, naked and frightened out of her mind. 

While Mycroft believes that omegas need a firm hand and an Alpha to protect them, he has never condoned abuse. The oppression of omegas is a relict of the past that enables societies to survive, to establish order, yet cruelty? Cruelty paves the way to falling Empires. One only needs to look at what happened to Rome. And while Britain never was as nefarious in its treatment of omegas, there were a few brilliant minds that had organised and found a way to rile up the masses. 

“Why are you here?” Mycroft asks the girl more than once. It takes a full hour until she has calmed down enough to explain, in a terrified stammer, that she is to be at his disposal for everything he would need. 

“I can’t bear children. That won’t be a problem. And if you are unsatisfied, you will be provided with another slave, male or female.”

Even weeks later her words still send a chill down Mycroft’s spine. 

He hasn’t used her. One secret no one has ever been privy to is that Mycroft has never knotted an omega. Not even a Beta. Biology doesn’t interest him like that, it never has. Sherlock had to stay celibate to hide his true nature; Mycroft’s abstinence was self-elected. 

Mycroft hasn’t handed her back to the Alpha supervising the household staff either. The young woman, Yelena, turned out to be well-trained in various things like making tea, mending clothes and taking messages from Anthea when Mycroft wasn’t available. 

She could also answer questions, provide insight in the Russian Union’s treatment of omegas – not the official stand but the actual reality. And that was enough to make Mycroft’s stomach turn. 

*

Three weeks pass before there is another murder and this time they arrive on the scene in time to actually save the victim, a sixteen-year-old hooker living in the streets, from Sam Boone whom Sherlock’s homeless network has been monitoring. 

Boone doesn’t talk, not a single word and Sherlock can’t deduce anything new that what he has already found while investigating possible affiliates of David Caroll. 

“There has to be something!” Sherlock shouts at their crime wall, or, well, walls may be more accurate now since the evidence and clues have taken up the space surrounding the windows as well. 

Just then Sherlock’s mobile rings. 

Their eyes meet briefly before Sherlock jumps over the coffee table and picks it up from his desk. 

“Lestrade?” John watches as Sherlock’s lips quirk into a smile. “We’ll be right there.” He hangs up and throws John his jacket while putting on his coat. “Come on, they found something!”

‘Something’ turns out to be an envelope containing an encoded message. 

“Can you read it?” Greg asks, blinking at the cipher. Several other officers are scattered around the room, watching them in anticipation. 

Sherlock doesn’t deign that with a response and his eyes are far away. John shakes his head minutely, signalling the DI to give Sherlock a moment. 

“It’s rather simple, actually,” Sherlock drawls. “It’s the Caesar cipher.”

When none of them react the detective groans. “What’s it like in your funny little brains? It must be so relaxing. Is it nice not being me?”

“Sherlock,” John growls because there are still lives at risk. This is not the time for his partner to flaunt his intellect in their faces. 

“Caesar’s cipher is a shift cipher – each letter in the alphabet corresponds to another letter a fixed number of positions down the alphabet. All you need to know which letter is A and you can decrypt it.”

“So there are twenty-six possible solutions?” John asks. 

“Only one will make sense,” Sherlock argues, taking the slip of paper and pinning it to the wall with a piece of tape he nicks from a nearby desk.

XEZBG TOX YBOX U

Before John has even begun thinking about possible solutions, Sherlock gasps. 

“Already?” Greg wonders, exchanging a few looks with his colleagues. 

“Frankly even a child could solve this,” Sherlock shoots back. “E is the most common letter and which letter is used the most in here? X. Which means A corresponds to T so it’s a T cipher. And the message reads…”

Sherlock takes a pen and starts writing.

ELGIN AVE FIVE B

“We have an address.”

And with that, Sherlock storms from the room while Greg steps closer to the wall with an incredulous expression and John sprints after his partner. 

*

There is a corpse inside Elgin Avenue 5B. Whoever gave them the clue wanted them to be too late and the thought causes Sherlock’s blood to freeze in his veins. 

“It makes no sense!” he bellows as the Met swarms the scene, having arrived only minutes shy of John and him. “Why lead us to the victim? Why give us more evidence?”

“Maybe he’s playing a game?” Female voice. Young. 

Sherlock turns, discovering an Omega fresh out of the academy. Ah, she is the one, then. Sherlock doesn’t comment on his deduction – this is neither time nor place for gossip. 

“A game?”

“Show us how powerful he is? How we can’t –“

“- catch up,” Sherlock ends the sentence for her. “There has to be another message here.”

His eyes are already scanning the room. Expensive but vacant, owners on holiday, used for the murder. Maybe the victim was squatting but no, killed outside judging by the stains on his jeans. Transported inside to hide the body, then. 

There. 

An envelope of similar stationary, slipped inside a pile of documents on a desk across from where the body was lying. 

Sherlock rips it open, reveals the message. ROT-13 this time, replacing a letter with the one thirteen letters after it in the alphabet. ROT-13 is its on inverse and Sherlock has always found it poetic, if simple. 

The next address takes them south, crossing the Thames and stopping in Dulwich. Another cipher, this one more complicated. 

Stratford. Lambeth. Holloway. Welling. 

By now the ciphers have become complicated, take him longer to solve yet the Met is standing by, ready to pounce as soon as he has an address or a place. Sometimes it’s the backyard of a restaurant.

Chiswick. Ilford. Poplar. 

It is the middle of the night and Sherlock tries to connect the dots, tries to make sense of the pattern yet there isn’t one and if there is, it doesn’t reveal itself to him. 

The victims are all low-lives that no one will miss; mostly Omegas unfortunately. Eyes missing, stomachs open gapingly wide. Sherlock doesn’t smell anything besides the stench of blood after the fifth crime scene. 

“Whoever’s doing this is having fun,” John grits out. “They’re playing us and we can’t do anything but follow.”

John is taking this hard. As a man of action he is itching to do something – Sherlock has seen his hand twitch towards his gun more than once. Yet there is nothing. They are running from one end of London to the next, doing whatever their murderer or network of murderers wants them to do.

The next message takes Sherlock thirty minutes to decipher. Whoever encoded the letters must be highly intelligent, a lot more so than Caroll ever could be. Caroll might be smart yet he isn’t clever. He is delusional. This is methodical. 

It dawns on Sherlock much too late.

“It’s been staring us in the face!” he shouts, moving towards the wall of the crammed flat where they found the last body. No pen in sight, so Sherlock produces a knife from his pocket and scratches the pattern into the tapestry. 

“He’s gone mad,” Lestrade concludes but John interrupts. 

“Hang on, is that a map?”

“Of London, of every murder,” Sherlock confirms. “This isn’t a random game. This is a diversion.”

“Diversion? How!?”

“Right now every available law enforcement officer is on duty and on standby, waiting for the next address. Now look at the map, really look at it! What’s striking?”

A moment of silence. Then the young Omega’s eyes widen. 

“None of them was near the centre!” Oh, she’s a good one.

“Yes! We’ve been chasing clues like a dog chasing a bone while the cat found somewhere else to play.”

“What are you saying, Sherlock?” John demands and Sherlock takes a deep breath, ignoring how annoyed he is that no one can see it yet. 

“There will be an attack. I don’t know when, I don’t know on whom, but it will happen. Send patrols to Buckingham Palace and Parliament. Make sure everyone is accounted for.”

Lestrade is off without argument and Sherlock can’t stop the smile from forming. It is a brilliant plan, really. 

“Sherlock, we’ve still got another message to decode!” John snaps at him, shaking him with more force than necessary. 

Oh, yes. The cipher. 

Still grinning, Sherlock looks at it again and in that moment, it just clicks. 

*

They are in the car with Lestrade – on John’s insistence given that they can’t afford the cab fees or something like that – and ten minutes away from their destination in Wimbledon when Sherlock’s phone beeps with a text alert. 

He almost ignores it. Fortunately, he doesn’t. 

_You have been a clever Omega, Mr Holmes. I’ll give you a treat._

Sherlock blinks down at the screen, waiting with bated breath for a follow-up that just has to come since on its own the message tells him nothing. Well, nothing except that the person orchestrating the crimes actually supports Omega rights if the upper case O is anything to go by. 

_Go to Cyprus Pl. An old friend will be there, yet he won’t be waiting._

_Cyprus Pl, near the University of East London_ , Sherlock’s mind supplies. Who would be there? Hardly the place to find homeless people. 

As if on cue – _Coincidence? Probably not…_ \- Donovan’s phone rings in the passenger seat. 

“Sir!” She sounds alarmed. Sherlock sits up straighter. “There’s been an incident at Belmarsh Prison!”

“Not our division,” Greg argues but Sherlock won’t hear of it. 

“Who escaped?”

Donovan hesitates one suspenseful second. 

“David Caroll.”

*

Even with police sirens, it takes them fifty minutes to reach Cyprus Place and once there another four and a half minutes until Sherlock has deduced which building they need to search. 

Caroll escapes through the window shortly before the Met breaks the door in and Sherlock jumps after him, the sound of feet behind him confirming that John is right behind him. 

They split up when they reach New Beckton Park and once again prove what a great team they make. John aiming his gun at criminals hasn’t lost its appeal either… Sherlock shakes his head, forcing himself to concentrate on Caroll’s furious grimace. 

“How are you here?!”

“Did you really think you could escape so easily?”

“Yes, and I did,” Caroll snaps. “Who told you? Who sang?”

“Sorry, professor. I won’t tell,” Sherlock sneers and then watches as John closes the distance and knocks Caroll unconscious. 

*

After all is said and done, Sherlock is still pacing in a hallway at New Scotland Yard while the forensic team is trying to track the number that sent him the text. Not that they will find anything, Sherlock is confident to assume. 

“Would you relax? It’s over, Sherlock.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t you see? Whoever sent those texts knew I had figured it out! They knew there were patrols near Buckingham Palace and that’s why they sent me Caroll’s hiding place.”

“But they didn’t find anything!” 

“They haven’t found anything yet, John. There has to be something.”

Minutes drift by, then the sound of hurried steps echoes down the hallway – Lestrade rounds the corner a moment later, wide-eyed and thoroughly spooked. Sherlock doesn’t ask what happened, just watches as the DI crosses the room and flicks on the telly in the upper corner of the waiting area. 

“Breaking News” stands out in large, white letters against the red banner. The image shows a cloud of smoke ascend towards the sky, originating from a wing in Buckingham Palace. 

“Who?” John asks when the commentator doesn’t mention any casualties. Probably keeping it quiet and out of the media, Sherlock assumes. An attack on Buckingham Palace alone is enough to cause a panic. 

“Irene Adler. The bomb went off in her quarters. Bhabha wants you both to head over.”

Sherlock nods, looking to his partner for a sign of movement. John, however, is staring at the television screen, eyes distant and tension in his shoulders. 

Oh. Yes, he fought with her, Sherlock remembers. This probably warrants some form of grief. 

Sherlock grants him the moment, no matter how keen he is to get to the site of the explosion. The thankful smile John sends his way makes it worth the wait. 

*

Bad news travels fast. 

Yelena wakes Mycroft in the early morning hours, her expression apologetic. 

“A messenger for you, sir. It is urgent,” she explains and hands him a gown. 

The carrier is a household slave, his collar prominent around his neck. Slaves in the Kreml used to frighten easily at the sight of him, yet somehow the effect has lessened. Mycroft wonders if this is partly due to Yelena who, while she won’t outright state she isn’t being used for sex, does strike Mycroft as someone who would spread word about his lenient treatment of her. 

“Who gave you this?” Mycroft demands as he takes in the message. 

“Detkov, sir. The news just came in.”

“You may leave.” The omega scatters but Mycroft is already on his way to the shower. 

The assassination of Irene Adler, a mythical figure amongst omegas in the RU as far as Mycroft could discern, will have repercussions on a global scale. 

“How do you think your kind will react?” he asks Yelena, having filled her in briefly. Sorrow consumes her eyes and it only proves Mycroft’s assumptions. “Do you think it might be the spark needed to ignite the revolution here?”

Her answer doesn’t need to be verbal. It seldom is to questions of this nature since she is still afraid she might let something slip that Mycroft can use against omegas somehow. However, the minute way her face shifts is sufficient to determine what is going through her head. She is not the most intelligent of omegas, but then again, basically every person on this planet is a goldfish to Mycroft. It was rather dull before he went into politics. 

He spends the day in the office of Sergej Detkov, the man responsible for gathering foreign news. He learns about David Caroll and his Following, about the double-digit body count left in their wake and learns, curtsey of a member of the Met they paid off months ago, exactly what happened that night.

His brother seems to have attracted the attention of a powerful man who likes playing games and messing with European politics.

Mycroft spends hours pacing in his room, his thoughts circling around the murder spree, the mad professor and Adler’s assassination. There are several possibilities, none of them with positive consequences for the Russian Union. 

He sinks into an armchair with a sigh, burying his face in his hands. 

The most likely scenario is that whoever is behind the attack – be it an individual or a group of people – wants to upset the current status quo. Mycroft translates “upset” in this context with “instigate a civil war”. Either that, or a madman just wants to watch the world burn. 

While Adler’s death might strengthen Bhabha’s government, it will cause ripples in other countries. Italy might eventually implode. And the revolutionaries in the RU might receive that final push they need to cause serious trouble. Omegas in Russia outnumber Betas and Alphas; not by much yet they do. There are liberal Alphas in the country. The situation is not unlike Britain’s was; only the scale is bigger. More lives are at risk. 

Mycroft can’t suddenly change his course completely, he is fully aware that Orlov can just as easily extradite him if he is dissatisfied with Mycroft’s council. The only thing he can do is gradually alter the government’s course, maybe… covertly… 

Plans are forming, possible reactions to every move of every piece on the chessboard in his mind. If he plays his cards right, there won’t be another civil war. 

“Sir?” Yelena’s voice is soft, barely audible, unused to asking questions. 

“Yes?”

She bites her lip and wrings her hands. 

“Just say it, Yelena. You should know by now that I won’t whip you.”

She clears her throat, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, falling back on her strict training. 

“Why not risk civil war? We’re not armed, can barely fight.”

As soon as she falls silent, she starts trembling pitifully. Mycroft considers her for another moment, wondering how much courage it must have taken her to ask, how curious she must have been. 

It is a valid question, though. 

“Despite my reputation, Yelena, I have always wanted what is best for the country I was serving. Britain has held onto slavery for centuries before I was born. It was simply the right system for the right country at the right point in time. Yet people’s minds change, apparently. I underestimated the people’s yearning for progress and lost everything due to my misconceptions. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Britain is a shadow of her former self now, Yelena, weeks away from default and economical ruin thanks to a civil war that made the country bleed. I won’t let the same happen to Russia.”

Yelena chances a glance at him, obviously surprised. 

“You should know by now that I am not a monster, Yelena.”

She gives a jerky nod and retreats from the office. Mycroft feels a strange mood creep over him as he recalls memories he simply can’t forget. They seem to resurface more often now. Mycroft retrieves his best scotch from a cabinet, bypassing the vodka bottle. Some Russian customs are better left to the Russians. 

When he was a teenager – Sherlock had barely started taking his suppressants – Mycroft liked to take walks. The sounds nature has to offer were soothing and a perfect environment to think. 

On the other side of the forest behind their family estate was a home for slaves without a master. Not a training facility, just a place to put those no one needed nor wanted. A series of unfortunate circumstances that eventually led to the shutting down of said facility, allowed four omegas to escape one afternoon. 

They were older than Mycroft, had gone through their first heats long ago but were forced to suffer through them alone. If unable to find release or satisfaction over a longer period of time, heats can, in some cases, prove fatal, scientists found out later. It certainly leads to severe instability in affected omegas. 

The four slaves that crossed Mycroft’s path that day were nothing more than wild, feral creatures. He was too young, too weak to fight them off and he would bear the scars for the rest of his life. 

Ever since then he saw why his parents were such firm advocates for slavery laws, why they couldn’t stand the thought of their own son turning into such an animal. 

Now, not for the first time in the past weeks, Mycroft finds himself wondering whether or not it might have been the concept of slavery that made them go feral in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hugs-Mycroft-despite-everything* The plot thickens and this story is nearing its end. 
> 
> Last but not least, I’ve set up a new author blog: [jayez-fics.tumblr.com](http://jayez-fics.tumblr.com/)  
> You can also find me at [multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mad_fangrl) (though I don’t tweet much).


	9. On the Brink of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Irene Adler’s assassination, hate crimes increase while the country struggles with its debt and the Russian Union is on the brink of civil war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back, hooray! I hope some of you are still around and interested in this story. I’m sorry for the delay but my Muse decided to prioritise a 127k Supernatural fic… She’s fickle like that. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking around and I hope this chapter will have been worth the wait :) It has lots of plot and politics. Plus some smut that I am rather proud of… 
> 
> Economics and things are not in my field of expertise so forgive me any blunders… It’s an AU, so I hope your belief is suspended sufficiently to accept my version of European politics.^^ 
> 
> A few reminders:  
> Yelena is the Omega slave the Russian government gave Mycroft. The RU Prime Minister is Pyotr Orlov, A. Voevoda the Minister of Defence.  
> Omega/omega – depending on this group’s status, characters capitalise the term or not (like people of the RU, since Omegas are still enslaved).  
> Irene Adler was just killed in an explosion. 
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya).

The site of the explosion is almost worse than the horrors John has seen during the war. An entire part of the West Wing has been torn to shreds, debris is littering the surrounding patches of green. The inside of the building is in similar disarray. 

John tries to make sense of it all while Sherlock is busy inspecting the scene, treading carefully through shards of glass and destroyed furniture. 

“How did they get in? A bomb this size must have attracted attention?” John looks to his side where Homi Bhabha is standing, shoulders slumped and his eyes clouded. 

“We’re not sure. A convenient glitch in our security system seems to have covered their tracks, whoever they are.”

“Traditionalists?”

“Maybe.”

“But you doubt it?”

“Irene’s death will unsettle the public,” is all Bhabha says, leaving the attackers’ motivation up to John’s imagination. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Greg curses as he arrives next to them. “Sherlock can’t climb about the bloody crime scene!”

“You try to stop him,” John suggests. “See how that works out.”

Greg does try – and fails miserably. Eventually he settles for glaring in Sherlock’s direction while forensics are swarming all over the explosion site and the rest of Greg’s team hovers a few metres away, casting awed glances in Bhabha and John’s direction as far as he can tell. 

When Sherlock finally returns, his coat is covered in dust, his shoes caked with dirt. He jumps down from a pile of rubble and straightens his clothes, completely unperturbed by both the forensics officers and his ruffled appearance.

“Did you find anything, Mr Holmes?” Bhabha is the first to ask. 

Sherlock, of course, sees this as a reason to grin broadly. “Indeed. Whoever did this used explosive materials that the Traditionalists employed during the civil war. What’s left of Mrs Adler is, unfortunately, rather little – it’ll take your idiots days to sort out whose charred bones belong to whom,” he explains at rapid speed and without sympathy. “Now, if someone opposed to the government’s politics wanted to send a message, why blow her up? Surely a public assassination by headshot or a stabbing would have worked much better, but no, the bombers opted against these options – why?”

Bhabha and Greg are both gaping at Sherlock. John, long used to his break-neck thought process, ventures a guess. 

“To get rid of the evidence? Also, the attacker needn’t be in her vicinity – the bomb could have been set off from a distance.”

“Excellent, John, you’d have made a great terrorist.”

“In the eyes of your brother, I _did_ make a good terrorist,” John shoots back, earning a chuckle from his partner. 

“True. So what evidence did the bomber want to get rid of?”

Sherlock gazes into the distance where the nearby Green Park is visible because the walls separating the inside from the outside aren’t there anymore. 

“Well, what?” Greg finally asks. 

“I’m not sure.” He is perfectly still for a moment, then a sudden wave of energy sweeps him up again. “Tell your incompetent officers to inspect everything! Every corner, every particle! If someone ate a chocolate bar in here I want to know about it.”

“Sherlock, you’re not actually my superior,” Greg chides, taking a deep breath that probably won’t do anything to calm him down, John assumes. 

“In intellect, sure I am.”

“Sherlock, this is my crime scene –” 

“Why are you here, anyway? Isn’t this more of a problem for the SIS?”

“We’re here to help them as a personal favour to the Prime Minister –”

“Oh yes, because the SIS is still understaffed and only marginally more competent that you lot -”

“Oi,” Greg snaps, raising his voice and John prepares himself to drag Sherlock off the crime scene in the not too distant future. “My staff is hard-working and highly skilled in their respective fields –”

“Well, but none of them are me.”

“Sherlock, I have the power to arrest you and I don’t care what the papers will say.”

The detective snorts and his next words are dripping with derision. 

“Please, if you just shagged her already you’d be in a way better mood and you’d just ignore me like you always do, so please do us all a favour and get over yourself, Lestrade. Besides, the smell of sexual frustration is extremely distracting.”

For a moment John is sure that Greg will actually punch his partner and he is nowhere near inclined to stop him. Yet all Greg does is take a very deep breath, clench his hands into fists and then turn towards John with a dangerous glint in his eye. 

“Take him home or I’ll actually cuff him. I’ll call when I have results and until then, Sherlock is banned from every crime scene in London.”

John just nods, bids Bhabha goodbye, and grabs Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along. Sherlock, of course, won’t stop talking. 

“I’m serious, John, even that just now! Of course, he can’t hit an Omega, not even one as obnoxious as me, because he’s an Alpha and that would be harassment or a hate crime or whatever you want to call it, it’s so tedious, really…”

John tunes him out but still gathers from his monologue that Greg is apparently interested in an Omega on his unit but won’t make a move because of his status and gender. 

John thinks it’s time to go for a pint or two with Greg again. 

*

John gets the chance to do so two days later. Preliminary results from the crime scene told Greg nothing Sherlock had not already known, and he is keeping his ban in effect, which leads to Sherlock taking over the kitchen and a large part of the living room with some kind of experiment or other. 

Sherlock is in complete and utter focus-mode, barely acknowledging John at breakfast on Friday and even less inclined to eat. On his way to work, John asks Mrs Hudson to check up on the detective and returns her now empty biscuit plates to her later that day after his return. 

“Sherlock, I’m going for a pint with Greg,” he tells him, leaning in to kiss the Omega’s cheek. John inhales subtly, relishing the scent of concentration and passion that hits his senses. 

“Hmm,” is the only reply he receives. No surprise there. 

Chuckling, he leaves the flat and hails a cab. When he reaches the pub, Greg is already nursing a pint at a table sitting snugly in a corner. 

“This bad?” John asks, but Greg waves him off. 

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

The DI shrugs. “Maybe I should ask Sherlock – he’s good at ignoring his biology, right?”

John blinks. “Not always. Why?” He doesn’t ask what is going on since that question is implicit, at least he hopes so. John hardly snoops into people’s private lives – except for their medical history – but he can’t help his curiosity when it comes to the fellow Alpha. 

Greg gives him a long look. “How much has he already told you?”

“Just that you’re interested in an Omega but can’t make a move because you’re her superior.”

“Figured as much,” he growls and drains his pint. “Let’s get you one, too.”

Once they are both nursing a drink, John simply settles into his chair, waiting until Greg has found a way to start. 

“Her name’s Olivia, she’s a sergeant. Fresh out of the academy and really, really bright.”

“And fit?”

“Oh yes, and shy about it, like she doesn’t know it. Haven’t talked to her much outside work, but she’s had it pretty rough, I guess.”

“Must be doing well if she made it into the academy.”

“Yeah, her evaluations are all in order. And she’s great to have on the team for when we deal with Omega witnesses who’re weary of Alphas and sometimes even Betas.”

“So what, does Scotland Yard have any regulations against fraternisation?” 

That comment makes Greg shift in his seat. John leans forward, intrigued. 

“Not as such,” the DI replies slowly. “But it’s discouraged.”

“Then what’s the matter? You like her – bloody well ask her out then! You’re not forcing her to say yes.”

“But aren’t I really?” Greg shoots back. “I’m her boss, mate, and an Alpha – think about the power difference? What if she doesn’t want to but says yes anyhow because she figures she has to agree to stay on my team?”

John sips his beer. “Don’t you think she’s smart enough to know you’re not that kind of Alpha?”

“What if I am?”

A moment of silence. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just… Jesus, this is embarrassing…”

“What?” 

“Well,” Greg begins, his eyes not really meeting John’s. “It’s her scent. It’s… I immediately know when she enters a room because I pick up on it. And I got to stop myself from stepping closer in the lift just so I can…”

“… smell her?” John ventures a guess, his voice shaking with barely contained laughter. 

“Oi, bugger off, it’s not funny, mate!” 

John finally allows himself to laugh, much to his friend’s chagrin, and Greg makes a show of getting up, pretending to leave until John stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“Sorry, Greg, it’s not funny, alright?”

“You’re still laughing.”

“Yeah, sorry, stopping now.”

It takes half a minute, but eventually John has reined himself in once again. 

“Alright, so you think she’s smart, and fit, and the Alpha in you really loves her scent?”

Greg nods. 

“Does she like you back?”

A pained expression takes over Greg’s features. “I don’t know. I think so. She never seems uncomfortable when she’s talking to me and she’s told me about herself once or twice, but I’m not sure it’s because she wants to or because she feels she’s got to.”

John is not a person people come to for relationship advice. Hell, he kidnaped his partner before he even knew him. Granted, different circumstances, but the point still stands that John is not an expert at conventional relationships, just an expert at Sherlock. 

So yes, Greg sitting across from him, glaring at his beer like it personally affronted him, waiting for John to tell him… something… is not anything that is in John’s realm. But Greg’s a friend, so he will do his best to help. 

“Listen, mate,” he finally starts. “Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to bring her coffee or tea or whatever she likes best on Monday, and maybe get something form a bakery on Wednesday, and do another thing on Friday. Then you’ll ask her out. Tell her you’d like it to be a date and that she can say no and you will forget about it, it won’t impact her job, something like that. And wait what she says. Take it from here.”

“You sure? How’d you come up with that?”

“Saw it on the telly once.” 

Greg snorts. “You’re a prat.”

“And you’re desperate. Come on, Greg – you want to ask her out, so ask her out. Show you’ve got good intentions. It’s not against the law.”

The other Alpha stares at him for a long time, maybe trying to come up with a strong enough counter-argument, yet in the end Greg grumbles a “Fine,” and orders another round. 

While John is glad that his curiosity was satisfied, he is even happier when the conversation takes a turn towards sport and non-romantic things. 

*

At the back of his mind, Sherlock knows that John makes for a very apt strategist – he has proven himself during the civil war and beyond – but sometimes it slips Sherlock’s mind. 

Until John employs a clever scheme to remind him, that is. 

They have a Sunday free of any prior commitments or cases, given they are still waiting for the bumbling idiots of the SIS and Scotland Yard to finish their report on the explosion site. It gives Sherlock time for another experiment that has been on his list for a while now and currently he is standing in the kitchen, microscope and petri dishes scattered about the room (only because John banned him from the living room yesterday in a truly arousing display of Alpha authority). 

Sherlock has been up for a few hours, leaving John’s sleeping form behind. The Alpha needs his sleep after all the sexual post-argument escapades they engaged in. 

Upon waking up, John might have pressed up against him – Sherlock can’t really tell, he was and still is too absorbed in his experiment and if John wants morning sex, he will have to wait a bit. 

Only John seems disinclined to wait. Yet instead of being straightforward and obvious about it, Captain John Watson simply makes some space in the living room and starts his workout. 

This isn’t unheard of. John sometimes misses his training sessions with his troops that Bhabha roped him into doing, so if he wants to keep up with recruits half his age, he needs to put the hours in. Which Sherlock appreciates because, quite frankly, the results are delicious. 

What he doesn’t appreciate is John conducting crunches while Sherlock is trying to concentrate. The gasps that filter into the kitchen in themselves are distracting, let alone the mental images Sherlock’s mind supplies. Devious strategist, indeed. 

Sherlock tries to hold out, he really does. He finishes the next stage of the experiment and he really should continue right away since any delay might screw with the results yet in that precise moment, sounds from the living room indicate that John has switched back from press-ups to crunches. 

Just imagining the muscles rippling underneath John’s skin has Sherlock’s pulse quickening. 

Sherlock shakes his head, focussing on the microscope once more. Only what was the next step? 

With an angry huff, Sherlock rips his gloves off and stalks into the living room. 

“I’m trying to concentrate!” he complains, sucking in a surprised breath when he sees that John is actually shirtless. A slight sheen of sweat is covering his chest and abdomen, muscles pulled taunt as John pauses mid-crunch. 

“Don’t you have earplugs?” He looks up innocently as if this weren’t all part of his plan. 

“Damn it, John, your libido has to wait.”

John executes another crunch, pausing with his torso raised from the floor to answer. “My libido is currently waiting, Sherlock, I’m just working out.” He even has the audacity to smile. 

“Fine,” Sherlock grits out and returns to the kitchen. 

In the following five minutes, he manages to break not one but two petri dishes (empty ones, thankfully) and tries to ignore the dampness in his lower regions. Betrayed by his body. Wonderful. 

Sherlock grips the countertop, trying to clear his head. John switches from crunches back to press-ups… which fills Sherlock’s mind with images of John’s bare back, droplets of sweat accumulating between his shoulder blades and Sherlock’s only thought is how much he would like to lick them off his skin. He is half-hard in the loose confines of his pyjamas and lubricating fast. 

Bloody hell. 

He is back in the living room in a heartbeat and the sight that meets his eyes is just as erotic as he imagined it. John doesn’t stop, just follows up one press-up with another, even though he has to hear Sherlock’s dressing gown and T-shirt hit the floor. 

John does pause when he feels Sherlock’s tongue on his back, licking up his spine and tracing his shoulder blades through layers of muscle and skin. Time for another experiment, then, Sherlock decides as he winds a hand underneath John’s torso and places it over John’s crotch, never ceasing the movements of his tongue. 

“Jesus,” John groans, still holding himself up on both arms but his muscles are starting to complain, tiny tremors running through his body. Sherlock grins into his skin, palming his erection through his workout trousers while kneeling next to him. 

John gasps, then drops down onto his side and Sherlock pushes his hip in order to make him roll onto his back. Sherlock starts with the hollow of his throat, licks his way down John’s sternum and then traces his abs, nose filling with the growing scent of John’s arousal. 

Two can play devious games. 

Sherlock moves to straddle John’s hips, pressing their groins together. He sets a slow rhythm, their erections rubbing against each other through two layers of fabric at a pace that will soon become torturous while his mouth never leaves John’s skin. 

John’s hands clutch at his bare shoulders, caressing just the right spots that make Sherlock shudder. 

It doesn’t take long for John to tilt his hips up, trying to increase the pace, or take over entirely, yet Sherlock won’t let him. He bites at John’s jaw, twists a nipple between his fingers, plays every card he has to keep John as distracted as possible.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John groans, “come on!”

Sherlock ignores him in favour of sucking a mark on John’s right pectoral muscles, symmetrical to the burned tissue on the other side. John loves it when Sherlock marks him and this time is no exception. 

He can tell John is moments away from taking over, simply using his strength to seize control, yet Sherlock also knows that John won’t, not without a sign from him that it is alright. 

“Damn, Sherlock…” John’s voice is ragged, almost painful in its intensity. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock purrs, licking at the shell of John’s ear. 

“Anything, just get a bloody move on!”

“No, sorry, you’ll have to ask more nicely,” Sherlock chides, teethes closing around the nipple next to the mark he left. 

John takes a few quick, deep breaths, eyes unfocussed and staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock can’t quite keep the smug grin off his face. 

“Please, Sherlock, please, just – anything.”

“That’s more like it,” Sherlock growls and finally pulls his pyjamas down, then makes quick work of John’s shorts and pants. 

He doesn’t get right to it, however. He slides his body forward until he can feel John’s cock slide against his opening, his body’s lubricant easing the way. John reacts with an unintelligible sound, his hands pawning at Sherlock’s hips. 

Sherlock ignores the burning desire to accept John into his body, _just a little longer_ , and keeps up the rhythm of his hips. His own cock is beading precome against John’s abs and Sherlock commits the image to memory. A flush is rapidly spreading from John’s neck down to his chest and up to his cheeks. 

“I get it, I get it,” John blurts, “I’m sorry I distracted you from your,” a gasp, “experiment,” another gasp as Sherlock increases the pressure on John’s cock, “but please, just do it already!”

It’s all Sherlock wanted to hear, so he lifts his body and grips John’s erection, rock-hard in his palm – John won’t last long – and lines it up with his own leaking hole. For leaking is the right word; he can feel droplets of slick trickle down the inside of his thigh. 

Still, he takes his time as he lowers himself back down, his body engulfing John’s cock slowly. John flexes his hands where they have returned to Sherlock’s hips but doesn’t push him down, doesn’t urge him, merely bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. 

John relinquishes control to him, and that in itself is maybe the greatest aphrodisiac in the current situation. Sherlock strokes himself, watching conflicting emotions flicker across John’s face, witnessing how he quells the desire to just take over again and again. 

He can feel John’s knot fill and is careful never to sink down too low. John whines, clearly not thinking about the time they would have to spend on the floor if Sherlock took his knot after all, yet Sherlock feels generous. He switches the hand on his cock and slips the right one between their bodies, fingers closing around the knot with enough pressure to give the illusion of penetration. 

John growls, snapping his hips up hard enough that Sherlock feels it everywhere, hurtling over the edge not long thereafter. 

The strain in Sherlock’s thighs threatens to become painful yet Sherlock loves the feeling of John coming inside of him, so he holds still, stroking his cock frantically until he, too, reaches his climax. 

He all but collapses onto John, who gazes at him through half-lidded eyes. Sherlock has the sudden urge to kiss him, so he does, luxuriously slow and almost lazy. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against John’s lips, unsure what compels him to do so. He doesn’t say it often. Maybe not often enough. John’s eyes widen slightly but he doesn’t say anything. 

He merely pulls Sherlock closer and kisses his hair while Sherlock buries his head in the nape of his neck, enjoying the warmth spreading through his body. 

The experiment won’t be salvageable… if only Sherlock found it in him to care. 

*

It is a Tuesday when Gavin finally makes an appearance at Baker Street, a thick file in hand, presumably the communal effort of SIS and Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock accepts it wordlessly, scans the pages yet does not find anything unexpected. 

“Like I thought,” he comments when he gives it back to the detective. “Nothing stands out.”

“Please tell me that tells you something.”

“Of course, Gavin, don’t be daft.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes, whether at the false name or his demeanour, Sherlock neither knows nor cares. 

“Well, would you share it with the class?”

He grins, registering John’s sigh from his right. “With pleasure. Your men have only looked at the physical evidence, but it won’t yield any results. Irene Adler was an important figure, not only here but also in other countries and her death has already spurred several reformist groups into stating or restating their demands. Someone went to great length to _kill_ her, not assassinate her, and to avoid leaving evidence. Now, who would profit from this?”

The DI blinks at him, his brain trying to come up with an answer from the looks of it. “Rebel groups in other countries? But killing off one of their own to fuel their fights is a bit too much, isn’t it?”

“Yes, which is why that answer is stupid.”

“Sherlock,” John chides in that tone of his that always indicates Sherlock is being unsociable or arrogant. 

Sherlock merely rolls his eyes. “This was the work of a powerful individual who was capable to breach Palace security and had the means to build that bomb. We are looking for a person with a past of instigating conflict, only this time he has taken his operation to an even more international level.”

“You’re not saying?” John cuts in, always the first one to catch Sherlock’s drift. Sherlock sends his partner a fond smile. 

“Yes, I am saying.”

Lestrade looks from John to Sherlock and back. Whatever he sees seems to make even him connect the dots. “What? Moriarty?!”

Sherlock nods. “He tried to extend the civil war when it first waged, now the Russian Union is falling apart and becoming ever more unstable. If it weren’t for my _brother_ ,” he spits out with as much venom as he can muster, “the satellite states would have already taken up arms. And the Reformists inside the RU are growing stronger, too. Killing Adler may not ignite the powder keg, though it shall be a powerful contributing factor.”

“So you do watch the news after all?” John asks, raising a bemused eyebrow. 

Before Sherlock can answer, Lestrade pipes up. “So what now? Arresting Moriarty on a hunch is not going to work.”

“Oh, you’d need to find him first, inspector. All we can do now is stay vigilant. This won’t have been Moriarty’s last move.”

“Wonderful,” Lestrade sighs. “Well then, I better get back to the SIS.”

Sherlock waves him away, his thoughts already somewhere else. He almost startles when he feels John step up behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him flush against John’s chest. 

It does not help Sherlock relax. 

“You seem worried.”

Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with a response. 

“We’ve escaped him once, Sherlock, we’ll do it again.”

John places a light kiss on the nape of his neck, as if some of John’s optimism might be transmitted to Sherlock. He would love for it to work, yet he cannot shake the uneasy feeling that something much worse than civil war might lie ahead.

* 

Mycroft has not slept well ever since December began. If there are no meetings to keep him awake until well past midnight, his own thoughts manage to do the same. To his surprise, Yelena appears to be genuinely worried about him, bringing him tea and other more traditional concoctions to aid his quest for sleep. 

When the week before Christmas rolls in and Mycroft has long since given up on being warm or well rested for the foreseeable future, the omega finally gathers the courage to ask him. 

“Everyone in the Kremlin is afraid, sir, but why? Your concessions to the Reformists worked. There have been fewer uprisings.”

This time Yelena neither trembles nor draws in on her self after speaking, which Mycroft counts as progress on her part, then mentally chides himself for caring about his assistant’s wellbeing. He blames it on the sleep deprivation. 

“It is not just about the Russian Union anymore, Yelena. Britain has been talking about default and devaluing her currency. If Voevoda had his way, we would already be preparing for an attack.”

“Uh, why?”

“Well, if Britain defaults, all her debts become invalid. She owes most of them to this country, and given how unstable the political climate already is, default won’t help the Russian Union. It might be her right to invade Britain, which would have catastrophic consequences for both nations.”

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping? Are you looking for a way out?”

“I am, indeed. The Prime Minister values my input, yet he cannot be perceived as weak in such a time of unrest. Doing so might invite the rebels to mount an attack.”

Yelena swallows, though Mycroft does not ask her to divulge any information she has learnt in the past few weeks. He can read between the tense lines of the slaves’ foreheads, infer enough from the locked jaws of omegas he sees day in, day out. 

“Do you have a plan, sir?”

“I always have several.”

“Will one of them…” She trails off, seemingly at a loss at how to phrase it.

“Maybe.”

Her eyes narrow, confusion spreading across her face. 

“I aim to do what is best for this country, Yelena, which does not include civil war.”

“But you started one,” the omega blurts, then covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes widening. 

Mycroft’s smile is tight. “My soldiers wouldn’t have needed to fire if the rebels hadn’t shot first. Be that as it may – I thought the country wasn’t ready for such sweeping social change. A large part of the British Alpha population still is not, yet they are in the minority. I will not make the same mistake twice, Yelena.”

He watches her closely as she processes his admission, sees the moment it comes together. She makes an aborted sound, almost like a squeal of delight, before schooling her expression once more. But the corners of her mouth are still curling upwards. 

“That will be all,” Mycroft tells her firmly. She curtseys before leaving. Maybe it is his imagination, but he thinks he sees a spring in her step.

*

“You want to _what_?!” The Minister of Defence practically shouts, the outrage on his face mirrored across the room. 

Only a handful of officials are intrigued, including Pyotr Orlov who is the only one that counts. 

“A meeting. Where we talk about the impending situation like the civilised human beings that we are,” Mycroft explains, aiming a sneer at Voevoda. 

“We have nothing to discuss with that omega,” the Minister objects as expected. “If they default, we will attack. We cannot afford to be seen as weak, Mr Holmes.”

“We will not. I promise you that Homi Bhabha will go to great length to avoid a war.”

“Do these lengths include lifting their sanctions against us, Mycroft?” Orlov wonders out loud and Mycroft nods. 

“We will not step away from this without concessions of our own, but we will emerge strong and in peace.”

Silence falls, and Orlov’s expression makes it clear that he is giving Mycroft’s proposal some thought. 

“You cannot be considering this, Prime Minister!” Voevoda rages. “We’re not passing any more laws in favour of omegas! We must not!”

“There is no way in which we can afford a war on two fronts, Minister,” Orlov cautions. “War with Britain will ensure civil war, and have you forgotten that the omegas make up the majority of our population? We would need them in a war against Britain but they will not serve us in the current climate. I agree that peace is our priority. Lifting the embargo would help our economy as well.”

When New Britain had placed sanctions on its dealings with the RU and several old colonies followed suit, many so-called experts predicted that Russia would be crippled economically. They forgot, however, as Mycroft likes to remember when he needs something to cheer him up, that a large part of Russia’s economy takes place in the shadow networks of organised crime, which is a part embargos do not have any power over. 

“I will contact Mr Bhabha and ask him for a meeting. Mr Holmes will accompany me.”

“This is preposterous!” Voevoda rages and several members of the government join in, yet neither Mycroft nor Orlov pay them any heed. 

Mycroft exits the room after exchanging a quick glance with the Prime Minister. He has negotiations to prepare. 

*

They meet on Christmas Eve, in a hotel in Gdańsk because it is halfway between Moscow and London. Neutral ground. No reporters, only Homi Bhabha, Marc Thoreau and Theresa Williams, one of the student’s movement’s most renowned omegas who has taken over as Home Secretary after Miss Adler’s death. 

Thoreau and William’s glare could fell a lesser man than Mycroft. 

“Sir, Ma’am,” he greets them, extending his hand to Bhabha after the omega releases Orlov’s hand. “Mr Bhabha.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about shaking hands with you, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft withdraws his arm. “Maybe when we part, then.”

Bhabha’s gaze is considering, glinting with something that might be hope. “Well, let’s get started.”

They take their seats, the new Triumvirate on one side of the table, Mycroft and Orlov across from them. Mycroft spent the past few days working on what follows now and if he weren’t as versed in politics, he might have been more nervous. 

“Gentlemen. I will forgo possible niceties of diplomacy and be frank with you. You wish to default. The Russian Union cannot afford to waive what you owe her, yet I’m certain I speak for everyone in this room when I say that a violent alternative is not in anyone’s interest.”

“Damn right, it isn’t,” Thoreau snaps. “You killed enough people in your lifetime, Holmes.”

Mycroft ignores him. “Which is why we need to come to a different conclusion.”

“I take it you already have a few suggestions?” Williams asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest in a blatant display of pre-emptive refusal. 

“Yes. You default as planned; you devalue your currency as planned. The RU accepts the default under the condition that you lift the embargo imposed on us and we will be your primary money giver in the future yet with a higher interest rate to compensate us for our losses.”

“What, so you can cripple our economy with more debt?” 

Mycroft stifles a sigh. Williams is proving to be exactly the kind of young, inexperienced hothead he expected. 

“Of course, future reimbursements depend on your economic situation, and we will grant you a grace period before initiating paybacks.”

“Your suggestions are good,” Bhabha eventually speaks up, earning himself some scorn from his colleagues. “Yet you forget that you are not in a considerably stronger position than we are. We will need one more concession from you.”

“You seem to forget whose is the biggest country here, Bhabha,” Orlov sneers. Mycroft would have hit him for his hubris if they weren’t all grown men. 

“Omegas make up the largest part of your population,” Bhabha continues, unperturbed, unknowingly echoing the same thing Orlov has told his own cabinet. “In case of a war with Britain, these Omegas will rebel and you can be sure that Britain will provide assistance.”

“Which is a good point, sir,” Mycroft cuts in before the Russian Prime Minister can let his pride get the better of him against his better judgement. “What kind of concessions did you have in mind?”

“I’m sure a man of your intellect has already figured it out.”

Mycroft smiles. “You wish for the RU to end the oppression of omegas.”

“Yes. Britain will not deal with a country that violates basic human rights.”

“I am sure you know that this change you are demanding will not happen over night.”

Bhabha heaves the sigh of a man weary of how the world works. “Of course. It would be counterproductive to ask you to implement changes immediately and in full. Yet we will demand that you commit to transforming your society in stages.”

“This sounds reasonable,” Mycroft concedes, and finally Orlov puts the puzzle together. 

“You already have the process outlined, do you not?”

“I am nothing if not prepared.” Mycroft allows himself a smug grin which only seems to anger Thoreau. 

“Let’s hear it, then,” the Alpha demands, his face dark. 

“We have already passed laws about the treatment of omegas several weeks ago. The next step will be to give first, basic rights to the omega population, so that they can leave their Alpha masters and establish themselves as individuals who have access to schooling, housing, jobs and more. With the embargo lifted, there will be more employment opportunities to fill. We will establish a Secretary for Omega Affairs within the government, and a task group to determine future steps.”

“You will have to change the constitution!” Williams reminds them, though Mycroft looks to Orlov for a response. 

“As Prime Minister I am allowed to suggest changes, and I will demand for this one as soon as the news of our agreement is made public. Given that I have the power to fire any member of government, those opposed to the change will either have to keep quiet or find another occupation.”

At times like this Mycroft remembers why he prefers authoritarian rule to democracy. 

After a long pause during which both Thoreau and Williams seems to struggle with whether or not they should object to such blatant blackmail, Bhabha nods. 

“Then we have an agreement. I think it best if we draw up the treaty immediately, and sign it as soon as both our governments have approved it.”

Which is the opening Mycroft needs to pull a thick folder out of his briefcase.  
“I have come prepared,” he explains as he retrieves the draft of the treaty he has spent the past nights devising. 

Bhabha surprises him with a smile, which Mycroft returns. It makes him think… Maybe there is one more thing Mycroft can achieve today. 

* 

The news breaks on the last Saturday in 2013. 

It is eight in the morning when Sherlock and John return to 221B, both high on post-case endorphins after a night spent chasing clues and criminals. Now that their perpetrator has been effectively cuffed and is on his way to prison, John looks forward to spectacular post-case sex in their flat, so he hurries after his partner, climbing the stairs two at a time. 

Sherlock is most pliable after solving a puzzle which John intends to exploit ruthlessly today. He has the Omega pressed up against the wall two seconds after the door falls shut behind him.

Sherlock allows himself to be lifted up, wrapping his legs around John’s waist and burying his fingers in John’s hair while they are rutting against each other like animals. 

Of course, the mood immediately evaporates when Mrs Hudson’s voice penetrates the door. “Boys! Have you seen the telly?”

“We’ve just come back!” John shouts as Sherlock lets his head fall onto his shoulder, fully aware that Mrs Hudson will not leave them alone until they have done what she asks them to. 

“What is it?” Sherlock snaps after his feet hit the floor and he opened the door, revealing Mrs Hudson’s excited smile. 

“A peace treaty, didn’t you hear the news?”

“What?” John asks before Sherlock can declare the topic boring and listens intently as Mrs Hudson relays what she heard on the telly just minutes earlier. 

“Isn’t it grand?” the landlady says, shaking her head as if she still can’t believe it. “And I mean, I still despise him, Sherlock, don’t get me wrong, but they say that Mycroft’s been a driving force behind the negotiations. That he actually wrote the treaty!”

“He can write instruction manuals for a kettle for all I care,” Sherlock grumbles and John places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Well, thanks for telling us, Mrs Hudson.”

“Sure thing! I know how busy you boys are. Oh, I will bake some biscuits, how about that? To celebrate, what do you say?”

“That’s a great idea, Mrs Hudson, off you go now,” Sherlock replies before John can, successfully ushering the woman out of their flat, pointedly closing and locking the door and then turning around to level a heated gaze at John. “Where were we?”

*

In 2015, Britain’s steady economic decline grinds to a halt after the government defaults on 1st January. Shortly thereafter the administration devalues the Pound, which means that John receives less pay but also that certain products cost less.  
He is by no means an expert in economic relations, but the devalued currency seems to lead to more exports since their products are cheaper on the world market. Add to that the lifted embargo on the RU which means state and firms residing in that country are allowed to buy things from Britain again, plus a growing Russian Omega population becoming able to afford products like electronic equipment, and three weeks after the transition Britain’s economy is starting to improve. 

As far as John can tell, the social transformation in Russia is working equally well. There were protests, groups of elitist Alphas and oligarchs issuing a lot of threats, and the military had to intervene a few times when things turned more violent than peaceful, but all in all the country is on its way to equality. 

Things are looking better and most importantly the soldiers John helps train twice a week won’t be deployed any time soon. 

He is on his way back from such a training session when he meets with Sherlock for dinner at their usual Italian restaurant where the owner Angelo treats them to a bottle of wine like he always does. Not going to prison for murder seems to make every Alpha grateful. 

It is fairly late when they find their way back to Baker Street. John pays the cabbie and pulls Sherlock down into a kiss before the Omega can produce his keys to unlock the door. 

After John finally releases him, Sherlock turns – and freezes. 

John’s pulse immediately spikes. 

“What is it?”

“The knocker. It’s been straightened.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“She never notices that I leave it askew.”

Which is a strange compulsion John noticed Sherlock to have. “So who was it then?”

“It can’t be.”

Before his partner deigns to fill him in, however, Sherlock has already unlocked the door and is climbing the stairs, John hot on his heels and drawing his gun, suddenly grateful that he always brings it to training sessions. 

On the other hand, holding a gun when encountering Mycroft Holmes in his flat might be a little too tempting for John. 

“What the hell is he doing here?” he snarls, aiming his weapon right between the older Holmes’ eyes, a burning rage filling his chest and coursing through his veins. 

Sherlock merely snorts. “Didn’t you see this coming, John?”

“No, I bloody well did not!”

“Now, now, Captain Watson. I come in peace. Literally, in case you have kept up with the news.”

“I don’t care if you’ve thwarted the next World War, get out of my flat,” he snarls in response.

“It isn’t, however. Yours, that is.”

John releases an angry breath and cocks the hammer of his gun. Apparently he looks threatening enough for Mycroft to lift his hands, palms up and empty. 

“What do you want?” John growls, not changing his stance. 

“I came to inform you in person about my return. Given what has transpired between us I felt it prudent to do so as to prove my good intentions.”

“Which translates to ‘I’m an opportunist and negotiated my way back into the government of the very rebel movement I tried to defeat’, in case you were wondering,” Sherlock explains, eliciting a chuckle from his brother. 

“There is nothing opportunistic about my return, brother dear.”

“Enlighten me then.”

John casts a careful glance at his partner for any sign of… of what? Panic? Flashbacks? Sherlock’s nightmares might have passed with time yet if seeing Mycroft again isn’t a trigger then nothing might be. 

“Everything I have done was with Britain’s best interests at heart. I serve the country, not my gender, Sherlock. I miscalculated when it came to the Reformists, Mr Watson. I did not believe the country was ready for revolution, which is why I fought it as vehemently as I did. I learnt from my mistakes. Did you not see what I achieved in Russia? Now I am back to help Britain onto her feet once again.”

The tension in the room is almost solid in the ensuing silence. John takes in Holmes’ words – they sound nice enough, yet he will never trust the man again. Contrary to his brother, who has to know what is going through his head, for Sherlock speaks up then, breaking the silence. 

“As much as I’d love to see you shoot him, John, he’s telling the truth.”

It takes him a long moment to decide, but he really doesn’t want to go to prison over scum like Mycroft Holmes, so he uncocks the hammer and puts his gun back into its holster. 

“Good choice, Captain. I hope one day you will –“ Mycroft begins, but John will never learn what the Alpha hopes because he puts his entire weight and training behind his arm and punches Mycroft Holmes as hard as he can. 

His fist connects with the man’s nose, breaking it on impact. His knuckles hurt, though John will never ever let it show. 

Mycroft, meanwhile, cries out in pain, hands shooting up to cover his nose, blood splashing everywhere. 

“I don’t fucking care,” John tells him. “You’ve said what you came to say, now bugger off and if you ever come near Sherlock or me again, I promise you that I will break a lot more than your nose.”

It is immensely satisfying to see Mycroft Holmes straighten up with blood oozing from his nose as he tries to exit the flat with as much dignity as he can muster. It isn’t much. 

“That was brilliant, John!” Sherlock shouts two seconds after the door snaps shut behind his brother and suddenly John has an armful of Omega. 

He knows Sherlock is not snogging him senseless because he wouldn’t have been able to defend himself against his brother. Or because he needed John to protect him. John knows Sherlock is kissing him like this because it wasn’t Alpha posturing but John protecting the person he loves. 

His equal. 

*

Anthea raises an eyebrow when Mycroft slides into the backseat of the car. 

“Not one word,” he orders, not missing the soft smile on her lips. 

“Do you want me to organise an icepack, sir?” 

“I’ll have Yelena mend it,” Mycroft comments offhandedly while he tries to stop the bleeding with a handkerchief. 

“Oh.”

“What.”

“I wasn’t aware she was staying with you.”

Mycroft knows better than to interpret Anthea’s tone as jealousy. She knows him better than anyone, so if the fact that Yelena followed him and that he allowed it surprises her, then that is saying something. Maybe Mycroft should have made the Omega stay behind.

“She asked. She is a competent housekeeper and has grown accustomed to my intricacies. Why shouldn’t I have granted her request?”

Anthea says nothing, yet she is probably thinking the same thing as Mycroft – that he really is growing soft in his advanced age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That punch felt really cathartic… And yes, I abstained from ending on a cliffhanger this time :) All is fine right now, but don’t forget, we still have Moriarty lingering in the shadows.


	10. The Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The social climate in New Britain is growing tense with more and more hate crimes spreading hurt and anger. Sherlock cannot quite figure it out – until a newspaper article puts forth some grave allegations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was intended to be the last chapter, yet it ended up longer than expected and I found a great point to end it. Lots of Greg in this one! I hope you enjoy it :) 
> 
> (... that is, in case anyone is reading Johnlock this weekend and not just binge watching House of Cards^^)
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya).

Sometimes, Greg muses, it really seems like the universe is out to get him. There is no other explanation for the amount of bad luck and timing he has got lately. 

First, when he finally manages to ask Olivia out, she smiles, says she would love to, but that she isn’t ready yet. She is still in therapy and doesn’t feel stable enough to start dating in a real life context without strings or pressure. 

Then the country is minutes away from war with Russia. And then Mycroft Holmes of all people barters a peace treaty and manages to sneak his way back into Britain and the government, and Greg could just break something. 

He does. Someone’s nose, in fact. It belongs to one of his fellow detectives, Dimmock, who spent five minutes complaining about integration measures for Omegas within earshot of Olivia, who looked like she wanted to say something but was too scared to challenge someone so much further up the chain of command. 

So Greg does. Non-verbally. 

He knows he will be suspended for this, yet the satisfaction he gets from punching that daft berk and the smile Olivia sends his way are definitely worth one week without pay. Usually it’s two, but the Chief of Police apparently agrees with Greg’s assessment that Dimmock is an arse who needs an attitude adjustment. 

Sherlock complains, however, because without Greg on active duty, the detective has fewer cases to work on since no one can handle Sherlock’s arrogance as regularly as Greg is capable of. John does buy him a few apology-pints, though, so he guesses that’s all right. 

When Olivia asks to have a word with him, two weeks after Greg is back at Scotland Yard on the first Wednesday in February, and she tells him she is ready to give this a try, Greg really thinks his luck is looking up. 

He takes her out for tea on Sunday (the original plans were made for Saturday, but a hate crime took priority and they ended up working) and it’s easy, relaxed. Olivia is smart and humble about it, looking great and smelling even better. Greg spends most of his energy stifling the impulse to get closer and touch her, so he is too hesitant to kiss her goodbye. 

She does it for him and Greg feels like he could burst into song or something he’s seen Alphas do in the latest films when their Omega gives consent. 

“Next week is Valentine’s Day,” he says instead and Olivia raises an eyebrow. 

“Is there a question in there, Greg?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, which is still dizzy from the kiss. 

“Yes. Would you like to go to dinner with me for our second date?”

“I’d love to. Be sure to get reservations, though.”

“You know, I didn’t make detective on my good looks alone,” he teases, barking out a laugh when Olivia’s closing line is, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, boss,” before entering her apartment building. 

Of course, getting reservations at a good restaurant for Valentine’s Day when so many Alphas are trying to woo their partner is a lost cause and Greg could kick himself for not thinking about this in advance. 

Desperate, he calls up John. 

“Mate, how are you?”

“Why are you calling? Did something happen?” John asks instead of replying, and judging by his tone he has gone into full Captain Watson mode. Since Greg usually texts Sherlock for a case and his “Alpha nights” with John are also agreed upon through messages, he should have anticipated this. 

“No, nothing. I just need a favour.”

There is a pause as John releases a breath. “What favour?”

“Well, I might have invited Olivia out for a Valentine’s dinner and I can’t get reservations anywhere.”

“What do you want me to do? I’m a soldier, not a chef.”

“You’re Captain bloody Watson, I’m sure you can talk some nice restaurant into giving me a table, right?”

On the other end of the line, John is laughing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Which is how Greg ends up at one of London’s top restaurants with a stunning Olivia and a waiter of their own “for the Captain’s friend”, as the hostess put it. 

“Really, I can’t wait until this politically correct propaganda stops,” Olivia complains as they move on to desert. “If I see one more film in which the Alpha is overly considerate and immediately accepting of their partner’s boundaries, I’ll find a reason to arrest the entire industry.”

“There should be idealised examples, right?” Greg argues. “I mean, most Alphas still think it’s their right to just claim a mate when they’re in heat, consent be damned.”

“And you think romantic rubbish is going to change that?” 

Greg is about to concede the point when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. “Sorry,” he mumbles, only checking his phone since he gave Sherlock a case that afternoon and he might have found something. 

Instead of Sherlock, however, it is John’s name in the sender column. 

_Sorry, mate. I tried to stop him._

Greg’s head whips up, eyes darting towards the hallway leading to the restaurant door, just in time to see a man in a Belstaff coat enter whom Greg would recognise everywhere. 

With a groan he turns to his date. “I’m so sorry for this.”

She opens her mouth to ask but before she can Sherlock is standing next to their table, grinning smugly. 

“Gavin, there you are.” 

Heaving a sigh, he greets, “Sherlock.”

“Why don’t you ever use his name?” Olivia cuts in before the other Omega has a chance to share what he has come to say. “I heard you use his actual name when he’s out of earshot.”

“Old habits and all that,” is Sherlock’s curt reply. “And really, that dress? Are you trying to break his control on the first date or is this your idea of non-provocative attire?”

“Sherlock, why are you here?” Greg growls before the man starts deducing anything about how Greg chose his favourite shirt or how his choice in shoes shows he’s ten seconds away from snogging Olivia senseless or something. 

“Oh, yes – I solved the case.”

“I gave it to you three hours ago.”

“You gave it to me under the impression that it was an eight, though it barely reached a five. Here.” He holds out his phone, displaying a picture of their victim’s boss, entering a dry cleaning shop. “He paid them to keep quiet but once I deduced how many illicit activities they are involved in they agreed to hand over the clothes Paulson gave them if I left them alone.”

“I take it there was evidence on them?”

“Quite a lot, in fact. Judging by the spray pattern he must have got some of the blood from slitting his secretary’s throat on his shoes, which he then cleaned conventionally like the daft idiot he is. There should be enough evidence to convict him, even though his clothes had already been cleaned.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

When Sherlock doesn’t move, Greg gestures at him to do so. 

“What?”

“I said thanks, now go back to John.”

“Yes, he isn’t too happy with me since I ‘have no respect for privacy’ because I learnt of your whereabouts by going through his text messages.”

“Which does not explain why you’re still standing here,” Greg tries again, noting that at least Olivia seems amused, judging by the smile tugging at her lips. 

“What are you talking about, Geoff, we have an arrest to make!”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Is Paulson a flight risk?”

“No. He thinks he got away.”

“Then we can just as well cuff him tomorrow.”

That brings Sherlock to a halt, his eyes darting between Greg and Olivia. “Hm.” 

“What now?”

“You must really like her if you’re putting off work to spend time yammering about meaningless topics.”

“Not everyone can have entire conversations with a look, Sherlock.”

The detective grins, obviously proud of his and John’s connection. To Greg’s horror, however, his grin morphs into a calculating smile as he turns towards his date.

“He is completely gone for you. Given that Gavin is my partner’s best friend, social conventions presumably dictate that I tell you what a great catch he is, how brave he is and how genuinely good to our kind, yet I feel warning you off will serve both of you better.” 

“Warning me off?” Olivia echoes and Greg wishes for a hole in the restaurant floor to swallow him whole. Or better yet – swallow Sherlock. 

“Yes. As his two failed marriages and several other aborted relationships show, his partners frequently found themselves in a position in which they felt the need to cheat on him, which is not, according to my data, testimony to his lack of sexual prowess but to his inability to prioritise his other half over his work. If you are prepared to occupy second place, then enjoy your meal, though I do advise against the crème brûlée, the patisserie staff had sushi last night.”

Where people before Olivia, when confronted by the full force of Sherlock’s deduction speed, flailed and spluttered, Olivia merely blinks once. 

“Since my priority right now is also my job, I don’t see a problem.”

Sherlock tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “Interesting,” he mumbles, and leaves without another word. 

Greg groans and bangs his forehead against the table top. 

* 

Greg’s timing does not particularly improve, yet after their second date ended with a passionate kiss, he is too happy to care. 

Olivia and he exchange smiles; he brings her tea and tries to be subtle about it, though at least Sally sees right through him. 

“You sure, boss?” she asks two weeks after Valentine’s Day, her eyes darting towards where Olivia is sipping her tea. 

“Yes,” Greg tells her emphatically, and to his surprise that is the end of it. 

Too bad his workload is increasing. Only it is not merely his workload, but a certain type of case that seems to appear more and more frequently. It takes four weeks for him to fully realise the pattern behind the crimes, mostly because they don’t all occur in his precinct. Though when he does notice and makes a point to go through his colleagues’ case reports, he cannot help but notice that London is experiencing the steepest rise of hate crime since the civil war. 

It isn’t limited to attacks on Omegas, either: There are quite a few cases in which Alphas are found severely wounded or even killed, and most of the time the perpetrator is one of the Alpha’s former slaves. 

Greg hates those cases because while he has to uphold the law, he would much rather pat the respective Omegas on the back because he can fully understand what drove them to commit murder. Doesn’t make it right, but still. 

He also hates what those cases do to Olivia – where she is usually an active participant in solving the case, she grows almost timid with these. Greg’s theory is that it reminds her of some of her past experiences, but is too much of a coward to outright ask. 

“Freak’s here,” Sally announces after opening his office door. “Want me to send him in?”

“He has a name, you know.”

“You got one too, Gavin,” is her pointed reply. Aware that getting Sally to call Sherlock by his name when the man himself is not around has proven to be a lost cause in the past and that today won’t change that, Greg just nods at her. 

Sherlock enters a few moments later with John behind him. John’s eyes immediately dart to the three boards littered with pictures and notes standing to Greg’s left. They make the office look cramped, but Greg didn’t want to put them in one of the more public conference rooms. 

The consulting detective, however, is not observing the data but regarding Greg with a creased brow. 

“You haven’t had sex yet.” 

It is a statement, not a question, so Greg ignores it as he gets to his feet. “That’s why I called you – all these are hate crimes –“

“Why?”

“Because I need your brain to figure this out,” Greg shots back with a sigh. 

“You can’t figure out how to have sex?” Sherlock asks then, prompting John to burst out laughing. 

“Funny,” is Greg’s flat reply. “Can we focus on the case?”

“Right now this is marginally more interesting.”

“What, you can’t deduce the reason from the way I tied my shoelaces this morning?” Greg sneers, noting how John looks more intrigued than apologetic for his partner’s behaviour. 

“I’m afraid I cannot. You have been dating for a month. Even if her heat is still off, surely you had ample opportunity to take the next step. Why resist?”

John smirks, yet says nothing. Greg glares. Bastard. 

“Well, we’re going slow.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because she has a traumatic past and isn’t comfortable with too much physical contact?”

“Why? You wouldn’t hurt her.”

Greg groans, rubbing his face. “Psychology isn’t your strongest field, eh?”

That gets a derisive snort in return. “Please. I care for science – pretending being breastfed as a child has any impact on someone’s development is over-romanticising bollocks.”

“Well, Olivia needs time, so I give her time. I can wait as long as it takes. Now could we please get to what I’ve called you here for?”

“What will you do when she goes into heat?”

“She is taking suppressants, now _focus_ , you git.” 

Greg apparently added enough urgency into his command that Sherlock abandons his current bone, finally turning towards the boards and scanning the data. 

“None of these hate crimes target the same subgroup or even group,” Sherlock sums up a brief silence later. How the Omega can soak up information as quickly as he does will forever baffle Greg. 

“A few have some things in common.” He points towards the colour-coded circles next to the victims and perpetrators’ names as well as the legend he put in the upper right corner. “My gut tells me there’s something more, but I can’t find it.”

“And of course you turn to me when something surpasses your intellect,” Sherlock adds unnecessarily. 

John sighs, throwing an apologetic glance at Greg. “Why are you so sure? What made you notice?”

“We’ve always had some hate crimes, ever since the revolution, but never this much. So I did some prying and it’s not just my division, it’s all of London.”

Sherlock hums, folding his hands underneath his chin. “If there is a connection, I’ll find it.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Greg enthuses, unable to prevent the relieved sag of his shoulders. Sherlock declaring it boring and leaving was always a possibility. 

For now, however, the Omega seems intrigued enough. Greg just hopes he will find something that will mean the past two sleepless nights haven’t been wasted. 

*

It takes two days until Sherlock bursts into Greg’s office with an overly smug grin. 

“You got it?” he asks, nodding at John who slips into the room after his partner. 

“Of course.”

“Well?”

With a flourish, Sherlock turns so that he faces the boards, then starts pointing at individual cases. “This Alpha’s sister had financial troubles which immediately went away after he killed the Omega. This Omega was pregnant, presumably the result of a less than consensual encounter, yet the abortion was paid by someone other than her after she slit this Alpha’s throat. Drug addiction. Debt. Mother’s health care cost,” he explains, moving from one case to the next in rapid succession, almost too fast for Greg to follow. “I could go on, though the pattern is clear.”

The detective looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Uh, well…” Then suddenly, it all falls into place. “Wait. Someone _paid_ them to attack their victims?”

“Indeed.”

“Who?”

When Sherlock remains silent, John speaks up. “We haven’t quite figured that out yet. “

“Then, why?!”

“We’re still working on that as well.”

“I have eleven theories, yet no substantial proof for any of them. However, I discovered something that will be of immense interest to you,” Sherlock announces, then falls silent like the berk that he is. 

“Yes?” Greg prompts just as John nudges his partner with a stern look. 

“According to my homeless network, there are rumours that claim someone developed a cure.”

“A cure? For what, cancer?”

Sherlock shakes his head and Greg suddenly realises that Sherlock’s silence is not, in fact, the usual ‘look at how much smarter I am’ type, but something else entirely. 

John clears his throat. “A cure for Omegas. It’s supposed to turn them into Alphas.”

Greg blinks. “You’re pulling my leg, right? That’s impossible!”

“Apparently not,” Sherlock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Rumour has it there will be a demonstration that it is true.”

“So stay alert, mate, alright?” John adds, rather unnecessarily. 

Greg nods, thanks them, then waves them goodbye with worry spreading through his chest. A wave of hate crimes, and now a ‘cure’? The repercussions something like that would have is unthinkable… Would Omegas want it? Greg’s eyes dart towards his office windows, immediately finding Olivia standing near the copy room in conversation with one of her colleagues. 

He shakes his head. It is daft to even think a cure can be possible. People’s gender is deeply wired into one’s DNA – there is no way anything could ever change that. 

Then why spread rumours? Why paying people to commit hate crimes? What is that going to achieve?

Unrest. Chaos. 

Realisation hits Greg like a bucket of ice water. 

His phone beeps with a text message mere moments later. A look at the screen shows that Sherlock is the sender. 

_Have you figured it out yet? – SH_

Greg swallows but picks up the phone to type. 

_It’s Moriarty, isn’t it?_

_Obviously. – SH_

He takes a shaky breath before putting the phone down and burying his face in his hands. He has a hard time imagining positive outcomes. There is no scenario in which this will end well. 

*

The beginning of the end unfolds on a Thursday night. Greg doesn’t hear about it until eight hours later when he checks the headlines on his laptop at the breakfast table while Olivia, who spent the night cuddled against him trading kisses and nothing more, is drowning her porridge in honey. 

“ _OMEGA BREAKS INTO ALPHA CLUB – 13 DEAD_ ”, the headline in the New British Tribune reads, next to a picture of the closed off crime scene.

>   
>  _On late Thursday night, an individual known as Marc Sutters gained access to one of the city’s few Alpha Clubs, where he opened fire at the guests after declaring himself the solution to the gender problem._  
>  _Alpha Clubs are a very recent phenomenon and membership requires both money and Alpha status. They are a legal grey area, given their conception as non-political entities. Nevertheless they have been a thorn in the government’s eye ever since their creation._  
>  _Through a mechanism the clubs have successfully kept secret over the past years, it is physically impossible for non-Alphas to enter the premises, and the club where the shooting took place was no exception._  
>  _Mark Sutters, however, known to his friends and family as an Omega, managed to enter the building. According to the only survivor, Marion La Fey, Sutters asked for attention, then drew a semi-automatic weapon. “I am the solution! Omegas will rise and show Alphas to their proper place!” the man screamed according to La Fey’s statement._  
>  _Only one hour later, our newspaper was contacted by a source who wishes to remain anonymous. This person claims that Sutters is the first Omega who has been treated with a so-called ‘cure’, which successfully transformed him into an Alpha._  
>  _“The effects aren’t permanent yet,” our source explained. “But they will be soon.” The person was unable to provide details as to who was behind the development of the cure or the attack on the Alpha Club, or if this heinous act was solely Mr Sutter’s idea._  
>  _The police did not wish to comment on the case, stating the need for more time to finish their investigation._  
> 

_Bloody hell. Why hasn’t anyone called him?_ Greg curses mentally. This practically has ‘in need of Sherlock Holmes’ input’ written all over it and neither of Greg’s colleagues ever calls the detective on their own.

He shoves his chair back, drawing Olivia’s attention. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” he deflects, grabbing his jacket and motioning for her to hurry up. They are on the road within three minutes.

*

“Here you go, mate,” John says, passing Greg one of the four paper cups he is carrying. “The canteen here isn’t that great, but their tea’s good.”

Greg thanks him and watches the other Alpha walk across the lab to Sherlock and a young Beta named Molly Hooper where they are currently running tests. 

As expected, Scotland Yard put Greg on the case almost the second he set foot in the precinct with explicit orders of doing everything in his power to solve it (which is code for “Call Sherlock immediately!”). His team is out, interviewing friends and following leads, while the detective in question is trying to find traces of the ‘cure’ in the perpetrator’s bloodstream. 

Suddenly the door opens, abruptly enough that Greg sees John’s hand dart to his weapon, but it is only two agents in suits who slide inside, sweep the room, then yell “Clear!” to whoever is listening. 

John stands to attention when Homi Bhabha enters. Molly’s eyes widen as she goes still. Sherlock ignores everything except whatever he can see underneath the microscope. Greg chokes on his tea. 

“Miss,” Bhabha greets the woman first, then nods at each of them in turn, “gentlemen.”

Thankfully, John takes over at this point, conducting introductions. Greg’s chest swells when Bhabha remembers him from the explosion site. 

“I’m glad we have one of Scotland Yard’s finest on the case,” the Prime Minister adds. “What is the status of this investigation?”

Greg can actually feel his cheeks heating up a bit at the praise, but he sobers quickly. “We are currently looking into any possible leads, trying to figure out if Sutters acted alone or if there was more at work,” he explains, “Sherlock and Miss Hooper are taking a closer look at the blood work. According to his family, Sutters made a few new friends a few weeks ago and has been about town a lot. Our theory is that whoever he met also got him in contact with whoever supplied the so-called cure.”

Bhabha nods, then turns to Molly. “Anything conclusive?”

“No, sir, uh, I’m sorry,” she stutters. “So far there was nothing. I ran every toxicology test three times. Biologically speaking, Mr Sutters was in perfect health and most definitely an Omega.”

In that moment, Sherlock pushes himself off the table with a frustrated huff. “We’re missing something,” he grumbles. “It’s staring us right in the face.”

“Maybe this cure actually exists,” Bhabha wonders. “And designing it so it cannot be traced after its effect has worn off does make sense.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock immediately disagrees and Greg catches John’s amused expression. One would think at least the Prime Minister warrants some sort of respect from the detective. “Our gender identities are fixed, spelled out irrevocably in our DNA. One can suppress the hormones, change the expression of those genes, but _nothing_ will ever change the amino acids. Alpha Clubs test on a genetic level, which means the cure is in fact a grand deception, some sort of trick. It cannot be real.”

“Is there any way to prove this?” Bhabha asks, clasping his hands behind his back, his face blank. 

“It’s science!” Sherlock insists. 

“What he means,” John cuts in, “is if we can prove it to the press.”

Greg snorts before he can stop himself. “Good luck trying to make those sods see sense. This cure makes for a great scandal – they’re worse than a hungry dog with a bone, no chance they’re letting this go.”

“Surprisingly the good Inspector is quite right in that regard,” Sherlock drawls, making Greg scowl at him. “It is likely all the rumours of the cure are supposed to achieve is spreading discord and increasing tension.”

“Be that as it may,” Bhabha interrupts, “that still doesn’t explain how a biological Omega succeeded in entering an Alpha Club.”

All eyes in the room flicker to Sherlock who runs a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. “Alright, everybody out.”

“Sherlock, you’re not throwing out the Prime Minister to go to your mind palace,” John scolds his partner. Greg has a hard time supressing a grin. 

“Then be quiet, for Christ’s sake!” 

They all comply, after a brief moment during which John explained the concept of a mind palace to an intrigued Bhabha, and Greg observes Sherlock with interest. It isn’t often that he gets to witness the Omega’s deduction process this close. His eyes are moving rapidly underneath his closed lids, his raised hands twitching minutely. 

After a minute of silence, Greg glances at John, whose gaze is fixed on his partner and so fond it could be an image right out of the latest rom-com. Greg wonders if he looks like this when he watched Olivia do great detective work. 

“Oh!” Sherlock gasps suddenly, startling them all. His eyes are open now, incredibly wide, and there is a Cheshire grin playing about his lips. 

“What?” Greg asks immediately, but Sherlock seems incapable of anything besides expressions of awe. 

“Of course! Oh, this is brilliant, absolutely ingenious…”

“What?” John takes a step towards his partner, who opens his mouth – hopefully to explain – though is cut off by the sound of the door opening, revealing an out of breath Olivia. 

“He’s a switch!” she pants, then startles when the guns of Bhabha’s bodyguards are aimed at her. 

“She’s with Scotland Yard,” Greg hurriedly explains and Bhabha signals his men to lower their weapons. 

“How did you know?” Sherlock has somehow crossed the lab and is currently standing in front of Olivia who narrows her eyes at him. 

“How do _you_ know?” 

“Yeah, and who is a switch?” John cuts in.

“Sutters,” Olivia says, followed by an “Obviously,” from Sherlock. 

“Oh, yes,” John drawls, “perfectly obvious.”

“Think about it!” Sherlock shoots back, whirling around to look at his Alpha. “It is the only explanation that accounts for his entry into the Club as well as for his posthumous gender.”

Greg blinks. “How the bloody hell did you figure that out?”

“Irene Adler,” is Sherlock’s crisp reply. “Whoever killed her wanted not only to end her life but also to get rid of the evidence, only which evidence was not clear to me before. They wanted to eliminate the possibility of an autopsy, ensuring no one would find out a switch’s biology turns them into an Omega after death. Up until now science has never endeavoured to find out, simply because switches are incredibly rare and, before Miss Adler, mostly pretended to be an Alpha or Beta to avoid the fate of becoming a lab rat, which they undoubtedly would have.”

Greg nods, taking a deep breath before addressing Olivia. “And how did you find out?”

She smiles, just briefly but it is so proud and confident that it makes warmth spread in Greg’s chest. 

“One of Sutters’ friends let slip that he sometimes moonlights as a prostitute whenever he has financial troubles, under the pseudonym Nate. I found the bar where he solicited, made some enquires which yielded nothing, until a woman approached me. She asked if I was looking for Nate. We got talking – apparently Nate didn’t offer his services as an Omega, but as an Alpha. The woman paid him to help her through her heat. Given everyone else thought he was an Omega and how ridiculous the notion of a cure is, I figured the only way Sutters could do this was if he were a switch.”

Greg is grinning now, practically preening. “Bloody great detective work, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” Olivia replies softly, also smiling and holding his gaze. 

“Well,” Bhabha interrupts, shattering the moment. “Does that mean we can conclude there is no cure?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock looks piqued – probably doesn’t like it when someone else shows him up like Olivia just did. Greg thinks he should probably give her a raise just for that. 

After that, Bhabha is quick to leave, thanking them for their effort and telling Olivia he is going to put in a good word for her with the Commissioner, and giving Greg a quote to include in the press release he has to type up now. Public relations will probably have him give a conference as well. What a joy. 

At least the case is closed and the investigation doesn’t stretch into Saturday. Maybe the universe has finally taken pity on Greg. 

*

>   
>  _CAPTAIN WATSON AND SHERLOCK HOLMES VISIT OMEGA PALACE_  
>  By Kitty Riley
> 
> _Usually the former soldier and his detective rarely venture out in public and both are notorious for their No Comment policy. It came as a great surprise to the owners of Omega Palace, London’s first Omega-owned restaurant with a Michelin star as of the start of April, that these two were among their guests last night._  
>  _According to co-owner Patricia Al-Hamdan, the pair reserved a table under a pseudonym. Instead of hiding their identity, however, both Watson and Holmes used the front door, amiably chatted with other guests who came to say hello, and left as they had come (see picture)._  
>  _“They’re so in love!” one of the other guests told us. “You can see how in tune they are, and Captain Watson is such a considerate Alpha. Every Omega’s dream, really!”_  
>  _The same cannot be said for Sherlock Holmes, who is known for his antisocial streak and his ability to infer intimate details about people with a look._  
>  _“Bloke told me what I had for breakfast. It’s uncanny,” says Warren Wessington who had the table right next to the celebrity pair. “He’s a bit rude, though. Watson just let it pass, though. Really laid-back, that fellow.”_  
>  _Well, that should be an obvious counter to those in our country, who still doubt Omegas and Alphas can function well together, despite their differences. Holmes and Watson are a prime example of how it’s done right. Granted, their love story is one for the pictures, but they serve as a great role model to –_  
> 

John stops reading at that point, seconds away from crumbling up the newspaper. It is good to see Bhabha’s plan is working, but John still hates the media attention.

“I need you to be seen together, outside,” Bhabha said when he called him after Greg had held his press conference. “People are worried. They need positive examples of Alpha-Omega relations.”

Homi being an old friend and having a point, John agreed. Over the past six weeks there have been countless ‘sightings’ of Sherlock and him, happy and together, and John had to promise Sherlock to make the farce worth his while for him to cooperate. Well, a little bit of sexual experimentation is hardly a hardship. He just hopes they can stop all this before the reporters decide it is all right to stalk them again like they did right after the war ended. 

John folds the newspaper, eyes sliding briefly over the headline announcing today’s trial before getting ready to go to the courthouse. It was Bhabha’s idea, not John’s, to have him attend the trial of the male Alpha, who had raped his female Omega subordinate, angry with her for getting her job because of governmental measures to decrease Omega unemployment. After Sherlock disproved his alibi, the defendant argued vehemently that the woman had provoked him, asked for it, but it was nothing more than the same-old victim shaming that has been around since Omegas gained equality. 

Everyone expects a quick verdict, so when the jury returns after only a brief consultation following the lawyers’ closing statements, no one is surprised. 

The acquittal, however, comes as a shock. 

Within hours after the verdict’s delivery, a large crowd has gathered in front of the courthouse, protesting the injustice of it, but John only sees it on the telly since he is back at Baker Street, venting his anger at Sherlock who just returned from a trip to St Bart’s. 

“What the bloody hell was the jury thinking? They couldn’t have believed that prick’s arguments! That woman is traumatised but he thinks anyone’s going to believe he’s the poor sod who was provoked?”

“It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock comments, his voice perfectly calm. 

“What? That the jurors are barking mad?” 

“No. There is another explanation for why several jurors, one of whom a prominent civil rights fighter, would suddenly declare such a blatantly wrong verdict.”

John stops pacing and looks at his partner, who steps away from the coat rack and towards him, his gaze expectant. 

John ventures a guess. “Blackmail?”

“Probably.”

“But who – ah.” Of course, such a verdict would only fuel the discontent that has been spreading for the past few months. “Moriarty.”

“So it would seem.”

“What’s his angle, though? People are angry, sure, but not enough to actually do something.”

“This won’t be his last move, John. I’m sure even you can see that.”

Instead of rising to the bait, John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just wish there was something I could do. A nice bullet between Moriarty’s eyes, for instance. Wouldn’t that be terrific?”

That draws a chuckle form Sherlock. “Very. Come now, I have a thirty-five-year-old former boxer to convict of assault and theft. Your military training might be useful during the confrontation that is bound to ensue.”

* 

Mycroft is infinitely glad that, somehow, his flat in Westminster did not only survive the civil war unscathed but was also preserved until his return to the country. Looking for property would have been tiresome, accustoming himself to new quarters even more so. 

Instead he can slip right back into hold habits and enjoy the luxury of two floors with a grand living room, a dining room, a drawing room, a study, a respectable kitchen and a master bedroom, in whose wardrobes Mycroft discovered a few forgotten suits of his upon his return. 

The flat also includes two comfortable guest rooms with their own en-suite, one of which Mycroft was glad to give to Yelena. 

“My own room, sir?” she asked, eyes wide and something unbidden clenches in his chest upon seeing her startled reaction. 

Over the past four months the girl has settled, though. Anthea has accepted her as Mycroft’s second assistant and housekeeper, tasked with keeping the cabinets stocked, managing his dry cleaning and coordinating his schedule along with Anthea. Yelena’s English has improved and by the end of April she hardly averts her eyes anymore when an Alpha other than Mycroft speaks to her. 

Having her go out on her own to buy something for herself or just enjoy a sunny day at a park, is still a work in progress, but Mycroft is optimistic. Maybe it is for the better at the current climate – if the press were to discover Yelena’s existence, they would surely have a field day. Never mind that Mycroft has never touched any Omega in his life, the media sharks would paint him as an abuser or something similarly ridiculous. 

He cannot allow something like this to happen, not when he is about to give a speech on the continuous gender conflict in New Britain. 

“Your notes, sir.” Yelena smiles at him as she hands the documents over. “The car is waiting.”

“Thank you. What do you think?”

He has taken to let Yelena read his speeches before delivering them, to make sure no one will misunderstand him or his intentions. It has proven a good decision in the past – as an Omega, she comprehends certain points differently. 

“It sounds convincing, sir.”

“But?”

“It might be too convincing. As if… As if you don’t want there to be a cure. So you say there isn’t, but you haven’t found the ones saying there is yet, to get them to tell the truth.”

“Yes, though I doubt they will be found unless they want to be.”

If Mycroft were on better terms with his brother, he could collude with him in order to find out more about Moriarty. Well, the SIS is not completely useless, even if their speed is subpar. Not that he can expect anything else from the goldfish that they are. 

He exchanges a few more words with Yelena, decides to keep the speech as it is since he prefers not to lie outright at press conferences, and makes his way to the City Hall. 

The speech goes as expected. The journalists present are annoying, asking inane questions until one lady rises to her feet when it is her turn to speak. 

“Kitty Riley, New British Tribune,” she presents herself. “Mr Holmes, I have sources telling me the government is covering up the existence of the cure and that you were directly involved in its creation.”

Only years of practice and iron self-discipline allow him to hold back a snort. “I promise you these allegations are untrue. Next?”

Riley sits down, yet there is an upward-curl to her lips that haunts Mycroft the entire rest of the day as a distinct sense of unease creeps up his spine. He asks Yelena to go through articles on the cure to see if she can find one written by this woman. She returns with several, yet only the one published immediately after the Alpha Club incident references another anonymous source. 

Someone seems to be feeding the woman information. Mycroft will have to keep an eye on her, lest she conjures up some sort of conspiracy that will sow even more public discord.

*

As Mycroft discovers the very next morning as he picks up the New British Tribune, he should have acted immediately. 

One single article with several pictures takes up the entire front page. The pictures are grainy, obviously taken from a CCTV feed, and show two figures climbing the few steps to a small platform underneath a bridge, leaving within minutes of one another. 

The men’s identity is obvious, but what really catches Mycroft’s attention is the headline and he cannot stop reading once he has started.

>   
>  _HOLMES BROTHERS CONSPIRE TO EXTINGUISH OMEGAS_  
>  _By Kitty Riley_
> 
> _At yesterday’s press conference, Mycroft Holmes denied the existence of a so-called ‘cure’ that supposedly turns Omegas into Alphas. He could not explain why anyone would spread such a rumour if there were no truth to it, but our newspaper has discovered the true intent behind Holmes’ lies._  
>  _A former employee of his has come forward. His name is Richard Brooks. During the civil war he infiltrated the Reformists’ headquarter on Mycroft Holmes’ orders and betrayed the location to the Traditionalists, leading to what has become known as the Grand Battle that triggered a more violent phase of the war and allowed Sherlock Holmes to escape the Reformists’ clutches._  
>  _According to Brooks, the younger Holmes was secretly willing to return to his brother, yet pretended otherwise. Apparently the older brother was already aware of the existence of a cure, which at that moment was in its development stage. It is self-evident that man as powerful as Mr Holmes would be among the first to know of such a scientific miracle._  
>  _“Mr Holmes has always envisioned a world without the weakness of Omegas,” Brook explained. The obsession was so strong that he put his own brother on suppressants, pretending to be an Alpha and made it his life’s goal to ensure Alpha supremacy._  
>  _Two days ago, Brook obtained footage from a London CCTV camera, which shows how Sherlock Holmes met up with his brother under the Albert Bridge. Their meeting is hidden from view, but the timestamps show they were both in the same spot at the same time. This occurred just before Mycroft Holmes fled to Russia, where he helped keep the peace before returning to his home country._  
>  _As Richard Brook told our newspaper, the brothers met to coordinate their separate efforts to aid the cure’s development. Brook himself functioned as informant, passing along information to both brothers, either in person (Mycroft) or through encrypted messages posted on Sherlock Holmes’ blog, www.scienceofdeduction.co.uk._  
>  _The final okay to test the cure on Mark Sutters came from Mycroft Holmes. As far as Brook knows, the drug’s developers are working on making the cure permanent. Once this happened, Mycroft Holmes was planning to administer it in the form of a large-scale vaccination effort in response to an equally widely dispersed outbreak of pox. The illness is extinct, yet scientists keep a few phials of the pathogen on hand in order to be able to produce vaccines, should it ever return._  
>  Brooks said Sherlock Holmes had already broken into the lab and stolen the pathogens and was going to release them as soon as the cure-infused vaccinations were ready.  
>  _Obviously, this will not happen now, thanks to the bravery of Richard Brooks, who opted to come forward with this information. “They’re blackmailing me, but I can’t just let this happen,” he told our newspaper through tears._  
>  _It is now in the hands of the police to stop the Holmes brothers’ devious plan from becoming reality._  
> 

Mycroft’s tea has gone cold. Richard Brook. The man he later discovered to be Moriarty. Was he the one to free Mycroft from prison? The Kremlin’s mysterious friend? The footsteps that night under the bridge, was that really Sherlock? Did Moriarty already plant evidence?

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Mycroft cannot move. He is frozen, with no exit strategy. Oh dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up – the final chapter and grand finale! I'll post it within a week. Comments are also very much appreciated! Just in case I don't mention it enough ;)


	11. The Last Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty planted evidence in 221B… New Scotland Yard is on their way to make arrests and search for evidence while Greg struggles with his loyalties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me long enough, but this story is finally drawing to an end. Featuring BAMF!John and epic showdowns… Hold on tight and enjoy! 
> 
> ECDC = European Centre for Disease Control
> 
> In case you recognise phrases, it is because several are taken form “The Reichenbach Fall”. Thanks to arianedevere for her amazing [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript)!
> 
> Also, a HUGE thank you to my beloved beta [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) – I couldn’t have done it without your constructive and detailed corrections!

Greg eventually reaches the station at seven o’clock in the morning, tired but feeling accomplished given the murderer he just brought in for processing. Solved within eleven hours and without the help of a certain consulting detective. 

He has enough time to wonder whether or not Sherlock would be proud (rather unlikely, granted) before he notices the flurry of activity unfolding all around him. Officers are rushing about, faces grim and concentrated. 

“What’s going on?” he asks when he spies Dimmock. Greg usually avoids the fellow DI, but as the most superior officer in the room apart from Greg himself, he is most likely to know what all the chaos is about. 

“Haven’t you seen the papers?” Dimmock asks absent-mindedly as he checks his gun. 

“I just got back with a murderer in the car, and where the hell are you going that makes you think you’ll need so much ammunition?” Greg adds, for Dimmock is currently stuffing magazines into the police vest lying on his desk. 

“Some reporter came into the station not half an hour ago,” he eventually explains, fastening the vest after slinging it around his shoulders to put it on. “Had a testimony from some bloke who used to work for Mycroft Holmes, about how he and his Omega brother are behind this cure. Even broke into the ECDC to steal some poxvirus, and the vaccines for it were going to actually administer the cure. No more Omegas.”

“And where is everybody going?”

“Baker Street, of course!” Dimmock says as if it were the most obvious choice in the world. 

Suddenly it all falls into place. “Hang on, you’re going to arrest Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yeah, and his brother. Also got a warrant for their flats and you bet we’re going to find something. They’re clever, but not that clever.”

“Who is this source?” Greg scoffs, feeling his pulse quicken. “Surely they can’t be trustworthy.”

“The Commissioner thinks so, and his opinion’s the only one that matters. Now excuse me, I got an arrest to make.”

Dimmock pats him on the back as he passes, making Greg flinch involuntarily. _Bloody hell, what a mess._ Everyone already thinks Sherlock is a sociopath, so allegations like this will fall on nutritious ground… But anyone who knows the bloke wouldn’t actually believe Sherlock would do something like that, would they?

Greg runs a hand through his hair, already aware of what he has to do even if it might cost him his career if it comes out. He’s a damn policeman; he should be trusting the Commissioner… 

_Screw it_ , Greg decides. He has known Sherlock for years and there is no way whatever the source says is true. If anyone can find a way out of this situation, it’s Sherlock Holmes. He just mustn’t end up in police custody. 

Glancing around to make sure no one sees him do it, Greg produces his phone. 

*

“You really should stay, John,” Sherlock murmurs close to his ear as long fingers trace an invisible line down John’s bare chest. “Surely the soldiers can train themselves for a day.”

“Your former boxer put me out of commission for one session already,” John argues, desperately willing his body to calm down no matter how close Sherlock is or how great he smells. 

“Yes, you can plead illness again. Come on, I have no case, you have no shift at the clinic…”

“Sherlock,” John starts but trails of because he has no idea how to finish his sentence. Then his exhale turns into a strangled moan as Sherlock actually slides to his knees in front of him, intent clear. 

“Please, John.”

To think Sherlock is not even in heat. He gets like this, though, sometimes, eager and aroused without his body’s chemistry telling him to, or without John initiating. He loves his partner like this, yet less so when he is almost running late for training. 

Something buzzes in his trouser pocket, right next to where Sherlock’s hand is resting on his hip, the ringtone echoing through the otherwise silent flat. 

“See, that’ll be the sergeant, asking if I’m actually coming like I promised,” he adds pointedly. 

Sherlock seems moments away from making some crude pun when John sees Greg’s number on his screen, mumbling half a “What-?” before accepting the call. 

“Greg, what’s –?”

“Mate, listen,” the DI interrupts without as much as a greeting. John’s body immediately tenses, spine going rigid, which cues Sherlock in and makes him rise to his feet. “They’re on their way to Baker Street. They’ve got a warrant and they’re going to arrest Sherlock –”

“What, why?!”

“Some journalist’s got some evidence, testimony from some bloke who says Sherlock and Mycroft are behind the cure.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I know, mate, why do you think I’m calling you!”

Oh. John glances at Sherlock, whose brows are creased in a silent question. “You think we should run?”

“Yeah, that’s bloody well what I’m thinking,” Greg barks back, but he seems to be trying to keep his voice down. Hell, is Greg calling from the station? 

“Shite, alright, Greg, thank you. We’re going now. Hang up, delete your call history, you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, good luck and be careful, alright?”

John is on the move before he even ends the call, pocketing his phone and grabbing some clothes, barking at Sherlock to get dressed and be ready to leave immediately. 

“Who’s coming for us?” his partner demands. “Wait, is it Scotland Yard? Of course, or Geoff wouldn’t know anything. So why? What do they have on us? No, wait, it has to be me, you’re the war hero and I’m – oh. Mycroft. Something to do with Mycroft?”

“Yes, now save your deductions for outside and get a bloody move on, you git,” John orders and something in his tone seems to have had an effect for Sherlock stops talking and rushes to the wardrobe instead. 

John takes his gun, throws ammunition and a few clothes into a backpack, grabs a beret he bought for last Halloween, then hurries into the kitchen to add a few bottles of water and a few energy bars before practically jumping into his boots. By the time he is at the door, Sherlock is buttoning his coat. They exchange a look. Sherlock averts his eyes first, allowing John to take point. 

They are out of 221B moments later, walking down the street at a swift pace. The street is already busy with morning traffic. John leads them into a side street, fully aware of the traffic camera that covers the spot, though instead of continuing in the same direction, they double back. The stunt will hopefully confuse the police later when they try and retrace their steps. John pulls on the beret, hoping it will make him more unrecognisable, should they be caught on a camera despite his efforts. 

It takes Sherlock a full twelve minutes to crack. “What do they have on us?”

“Greg didn’t say but the police have warrants. They’d have arrested you before we could figure this out.”

“What exactly did he say?” Sherlock demands, in that tone that indicates he won’t stop asking until John relents. 

“Something about you and Mycroft being behind the cure.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“No need to tell me, love,” John mutters, abruptly changing direction as he spies a security camera. He has a destination in mind, though it will take some time to get there on foot. He would take the tube and drown in the masses of people, but neither of them has an Oyster card nor Contactless Payment and buying a ticket would leave them vulnerable, especially since every person in London is bound to recognise them. 

It is going to be a long morning, and all that before his second cup of tea. 

*

Greg diligently processes the perpetrator even though he is going through the motions, part of his attention continuously focussed on his surroundings. Either Dimmock will return with Sherlock in custody, or he will come back with accusations for Greg. 

Dimmock might not be the brightest of the bunch, but he isn’t daft either. 

Unfortunately – for Greg, though probably not for Sherlock and John – the Alpha returns looking thunderous, his expression distorted by a scowl. 

“Detective Inspector,” Dimmock calls out as the first of his sergeants trail inside in his wake. “Would you answer a few questions for me?”

“What about?”

“You know bloody well what about, Lestrade,” Dimmock hisses. “Baker Street looked like someone made a hasty getaway and how could Holmes and Watson possibly have known if you didn’t tell them?”

“Tell them what?” Greg feigns innocence. He is aware that it will not convince anyone. 

Dimmock’s jaw clenches. “Take him to an interrogation room. And have someone in forensics take a look at the DI’s phone.”

Greg merely nods, ignoring the way his pulse is quickening. He remains silent during the interrogation, gets transferred to one of the more public holding cells while Dimmock waits on results from his phone, then has to suffer through Dimmock’s smug speech when the other Alpha informs Greg that they confirmed the call to John Watson’s mobile phone. 

“I’m going to see the Commissioner right now, Lestrade,” Dimmock tells him, “and you’ll be suspended. Then there’ll be an investigation and by the end of it you’ll have no job, no prospects, and all for some nosy Omega like Holmes.”

Greg does not rise to the bait, clenching his hands into fist so hard that his fingernails are digging into his palm. He tries to get comfortable on the small cot, staring at the blank wall across the bed, but it is a futile effort. The universe doesn’t grant him any refuge either, for the next person to step up to the bars of the holding cell is none other than Olivia. 

She just looks at him for a moment, though Greg is not sure what he reads in her eyes. He hopes it is sympathy. 

“I take it you had a good reason? Or did you do it just because he is your friend?”

That has Greg jump to his feet. “You can’t honestly think I’d give in to that kind of nepotism!”

“You tipped off a suspect, Greg!” Olivia argues back, her voice louder than before. “I don’t know what to think of you right now!”

“Did you hear what they’re saying? What this supposed source’s been feeding them?” A terse nod, so Greg barges on. “I knew Sherlock Holmes when he was still passing as an Alpha and while he may have contributed to the revolution, he’s never been politically interested. He’s a selfish arse who only cares about solving puzzles; he doesn’t care who’s Prime Minister as long as he’s able to work. There’s no way Sherlock did this, but someone’s trying to make him take the fall. I couldn’t stand by and let them arrest him when he’s the only one who can get us the hell out of this bloody mess!” 

Greg’s chest is heaving when he finishes, his heart beating in his throat. He doubts he will be able to make amends later should Olivia turn her back on him now. The moment stretches between them, seemingly endless, until she heaves a sigh. 

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I trust your judgement on this, Greg. Dimmock put me on one of the teams which are going to look for Holmes and Watson and I’ll see what I can do.”

For the first time that day, Greg feels a smile spread on his face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Olivia cautions. They share one lingering look, then she is gone from sight and all Greg has left to do is worry. 

*

It takes them until long after the sun has already set to make their way down to the north of Brixton, but John prefers playing it as safe as possible rather than risk being caught. 

The perfectly detailed map of London in Sherlock’s mind is a great help, especially when coming across a police car and needing to outsmart the officers, which happens more often than John would like to admit. It seems as if the entire Scotland Yard is on their heels. 

Once John even thinks he saw Olivia in the passenger seat of a patrol car, though he can’t be certain. 

“And what is at this address?” Sherlock asks for the umpteenth time.

“Can’t you deduce it?” John shoots back as he checks around the corner of the building they are currently slinking by, then grabs Sherlock’s wrist and pulls him with him. 

“I have thirteen theories, though no conclusive proof that favours either of them.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“John, I do not base my deductions on something as feeble as a hunch.”

“Come on, love, humour me,” John teases, smiling over his shoulder. He hears his partner grumble. 

“Fine. I think the most probable destination is the flat of one of your friends. Since I’m not too familiar with them, however, I cannot fathom which of them you would contact in a case such as this.”

“You know, next time I’m out for a pint with them you really should come.”

“And be subjected to listening to Alpha male posturing all evening? I can hardly wait!” Sherlock jeers, and John can’t help but chuckle at the image of Sherlock trying to hold a conversation with his former Resistance mates. 

“We’re almost there. We’ll need to get in through the back; I’m not sure he’s home.”

It takes a few acrobatics John knows he is getting too old for (though Sherlock completes them with a grace that is uncanny, or maybe all of Sherlock’s movements look graceful to John, even climbing over a balcony railing), but eventually they have reached the balcony door. 

John heads straight to a pot holding a plant that has seen better days, carefully unseats the pot-within-the-pot in order to retrieve the key hidden there.

“I could have picked that lock,” Sherlock protests, as if actually using a key is somehow more work than breaking and entering. 

“I know you could have,” John soothes him before opening the door and swiftly turning to the keypad next to it on the inside, punching in the appropriate code to disable the alarm. 

“I didn’t know the life of an SIS agent required this amount of security,” Sherlock drawls and John can practically hear the raised eyebrow. 

“Better safe than sorry,” comes a voice from behind them and John would be drawing his Sig if he hadn’t heard the exact same tone so many times already. 

Richard Lubitsch looks good, healthy and happy, despite the slight crease of his brow that surely is the result of John turning up out of the blue. They share a quick hug and a pat on their respective backs, then John quickly takes care of introductions. 

“It’s a good thing you haven’t come sooner,” Lubitsch says, turning back from Sherlock to John. “This way I didn’t have to lie when they asked me if you’d been in contact.”

“I take it they also asked to call if you hear from me?” 

Lubitsch snorts. “Yeah, as if. I saw the paper this morning, though. Do I even want to know how you got away before they kicked in your door?”

John shakes his head. “Unimportant. We just need a place to lay low and come up with a strategy.”

“Make yourselves at home. You’re lucky I’m still on leave until the day after tomorrow. The neighbours here get suspicious quickly.”

“Fellow SIS, I take it?” Sherlock asks, speaking up for the first time. John notices his partner’s eyes glancing about the room, undoubtedly absorbing every little piece of information on their host. 

“You got it,” Lubitsch confirms. “Now, tea?”

*

Sherlock’s thoughts are running circles around each other, have been since they fled Baker Street and are still at it when he reclines on one half of the sofa bed. The agent has gone to bed; John is in the shower. He probably asked Sherlock to join him, though Sherlock is not sure. His thoughts have been too loud; he barely caught the outlines of the different strategies John discussed with his former comrade. 

He knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jim Moriarty is behind the accusations, yet it still leaves a myriad of questions unanswered. If they had not managed to flee, would Moriarty have broken them out of prison? For surely the accusation would not have held up in court, no matter how much false evidence Moriarty planted. If not, what good would Sherlock do, fading away in a cell? 

A hand on his shoulder pulls him out of his mind. 

“We should get some rest, Sherlock,” John advises, always worried about his health, telling him to eat, sleep, and drink his tea. John, who has been by his side ever since the Resistance captured him. 

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock finds himself asking. 

John narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing implicated you. They would have let you go sooner or later. Why risk being charged for helping me? How can you be sure it’s not all true, that I’m actually trying to topple Alpha rule?”

John blinks at him for a moment, his eyes filling with something Sherlock recognises as anger. Though instead of shouting or letting his feelings show, John takes a deep breath and sits down on the edge of the mattress, hand covering Sherlock’s own where it is resting next to his hip. 

“Listen to me, you daft git,” John begins, his tone too fond for the insult to be grating, “I don’t care what everyone says about you. I know you – I know you for real, and I won’t let any accusation turn my head, you hear me?”

There is nothing Sherlock can say in response, so he gives into his body’s first impulse. He leans up, gently capturing John’s lips with his own. The kiss is chaste by their standards, but it feels so much more intense than even Sherlock’s last heat. He hopes it will convey the warmth that has settled in his chest following John’s explanation that Sherlock cannot find words for. 

It works apparently, for he can feel John smiling against his lips as they part. 

“Now get some sleep. We’ll need to leave while it’s still dark out.”

Sherlock nods, shuffling closer to John once the Alpha has climbed under the covers. Their hands touch in the small space between their bodies and Sherlock strokes his thumbs over the back of John’s hand, head still swirling full of questions but the even pace of John’s breathing seems to calm them somewhat. 

He does not know how long he lay awake before he hears his phone vibrate with a text. 

At first it is hard to recall why this should bother him, yet then he remembers that they both left their phones back in Baker Street and all Sherlock took is his secret phone no one should have the number for. 

Intrigued, he gently extricates his hands from John’s, pausing to ensure the Alpha is still soundly asleep, before retrieving the phone from his coat decorating the back of an armchair. 

_You are a sneaky little creature, Sherlock. It is time we solve this. Meet me where it all began._

Sherlock stares at the text message. He does not even need to ponder the question of who sent it. Only Moriarty would have the intellect and the means to uncover this number. 

He is about to turn around and wake John when the phone buzzes with another text. 

_Come alone if you value the Captain’s life._

Sherlock freezes in his tracks, eyes darting to the window. Is Moriarty watching them? Does he know where they are? 

He better not tempt fate, he decides as his eyes return to John’s sleeping form. Sherlock steals John’s gun on his noiseless way out the flat. 

*

It is moments like this that John is utterly glad about how cerebral Sherlock is. If he weren’t, he might realise that an Alpha will notice his Omega leaving in the middle of the night, no matter how fast asleep said Alpha was. 

John is used to waking up when Sherlock escapes the covers and normally he would go right back to sleep, but given their current situation John wills himself to stay awake, to become more alert. He hears the front door open, however softly, and close soon thereafter. 

He is out of the bed immediately. The first thing he notes when he puts his clothes back on is that his gun is missing and his panic immediately increases tenfold. It is not hard to infer where Sherlock would take a gun right now. 

John takes a deep breath. He needs a weapon and backup. Good thing he is staying with a SIS operative, then. 

*

Given that every person in London is probably looking for him, including cab drivers, Sherlock hot-wires a car. He keeps with every regulation, every speed limit, in order to avoid suspicion and soon glimpses what is left of the former Reformist HQ.

It seems as if the basement levels are still intact, yet the upper ones, which masqueraded as office rooms before the war, took a lot during the fights. Gaping holes expose the inside to the night where grenades tore off the stones. One corner is charred as though a fire claimed the area before it was extinguished. 

Sherlock’s destination, however, will not be found in in the upper levels. 

_Meet me where it all began_ , the text said. It does not require a clever mind such as Sherlock’s to conclude Moriarty is referring to the place that became Sherlock’s prison and kicked off the entire revolution, in a sense. 

The only remaining question now is – where exactly in the building will Moriarty wait for him, and above all, what exactly does he want with Sherlock? 

*

John’s eyes are trained on the vehicle just barely within view. Lubitsch is driving and able to show off his skills at subtlety as they follow Sherlock’s stolen Ford through the London streets. 

“Where’s he going?” Lubitsch wonders as Sherlock turns right. “He’s got to have a destination in mind.”

“He took the phone with him, so I have no way of knowing.”

“Come on, Watson, you’re clever. You said it’s probably Moriarty who contacted him. Where’d that bloke want to meet?”

Pursing his lips, John shifts in the passenger seat. “Somewhere away from the public eye. No matter what he’s got planned, I’m sure a patrol stumbling over them is the last thing he wants.”

“Libraries? They’re closed at night. Or a museum?”

“I don’t know, it sounds so random…”

“Well, there’s the civil war exhibit at the Natural History Museum. That wouldn’t be random, would it?”

John is already shaking his head. He cannot say why, but somehow a museum just does not feel right. Although the connection with the civil war may deserve some thought. 

“Do you know what became of our old headquarters? After the Traditionalists ambushed us?” he asks out loud. 

Lubitsch shrugs, shifting gears as he takes a corner. “I think it’s under monument protection or –” 

That is as far as Lubitsch gets before he has to spin the wheel around because of the motorcyclist suddenly barrelling towards them. 

John grips onto the doorframe but the momentum is too great. Lubitsch loses control of the car, which scrapes the nearest street lamp before coming to a stop, thankfully without rolling over or other stunts John is considerably too old for. 

Without hesitation, both he and Lubitsch fall back into soldier mode. The approaching motorcyclist, now on foot but with a semi-automatic in his hands, has barely raised his weapon before a well-aimed shot to the shoulder from John catapults him to the ground. 

Lubitsch disarms him, flipping him onto his stomach and pressing his knee down into his shoulders to keep him incapacitated. 

“Who sent you?” John asks, though he doubts they will receive an answer. 

“Just shoot me now!” the man – Beta, late twenties, Asian roots – demands while wriggling on the ground.

“And why would we do that?”

“It’ll be quicker.” It is barely a whimper and John shares a look with Lubitsch over the Beta’s struggling form. 

“You’re saying Moriarty will hurt you because you failed?” A frantic nod and John finds himself grinning. “Well, thank you for confirming who sent you.”

Underneath Lubitsch, the man grows still. 

“Listen up, mate,” John continues, “we’re going to tie you up and leave you for the police to find. But you know what might help your case? Telling us how many more people like you are ready to shoot us, eh?”

“I’m not telling you anything!”

John cannot say he would like to test that statement. Fortunately they do not have the time to, so eventually they really just fasten the man to a lamp post with some ropes Lubitsch keeps in his car boot for emergency missions, “Just in case!"

Give their car’s less than fortunate state they have to continue on foot. Maybe it is for the better – this way they are quicker to see any more of Moriarty’s henchmen approach. 

“So where to, Watson?”

“The old HQ.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” 

“Alright, then.” 

They exchange tense glances, then continue on their way. 

*

Sherlock has forgotten all but a few scarce details about the former headquarters of the Resistance. He kept the important facts (which mainly consist of various shades of John), yet deleted the rest, so it is like entering the building for the first time when Sherlock sets foot in it again. 

He wanders the halls in a way that would appear aimless to an observer, but there is a technique behind it. One never knows when a quick escape route will come in handy. 

It is when he sees the yard, flanked on two sides by the building and divided by walls between neighbouring houses, that Sherlock knows where he will encounter Moriarty. 

He steps onto the grass, which has grown green and strong despite the obvious lack of care. The bench to Sherlock’s left is withered – no one has been tending to it in quite some time. He has John’s Sig at the ready as his eyes sweep the area. 

“You know,” a voice sounds suddenly and Sherlock’s muscles immediately tense up, “I was going to make it look like you broke out of custody. Never thought that detective had the gall to warn you. Saved me a lot of work – should I send him flowers, what do you think?”

“I think that would confuse his girlfriend,” Sherlock replies slowly, holding his breath until he can see a tall figure emerge from the building’s other entrance to his right. 

Moriarty looks exactly like he remembers; only today finds him in a more expensive suit.

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that. Besides, I have bigger plans.”

“The cure?” Sherlock chances a guess, though he does not quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice. 

Moriarty raises a manicured eyebrow, as if challenging him to comment. Sherlock sees no reason why he should not oblige him. 

“There never was a cure,” Sherlock states, and watches how Moriarty’s lips curl into a grin. 

“That’s right.” Then the man pulls a face, a distorted imitation of someone in the middle of pondering one of life’s most difficult questions. “But how did I manage to have an Omega break into the Alpha‘s Club?” His voice dips low, only to spiral higher again. It is starting to annoy Sherlock gravely. “Have you figured it out yet?”

He can barely contain a snort. “Easy,” Sherlock says instead. “All you need is the right person. Sutters was a shifter, just like Irene Adler, who you blew up instead of merely having her assassinated because you wanted to get rid of the evidence. A shifter, just like you.”

Moriarty grins broadly. “Very good. But you fell for it, didn’t you? The cure.”

Sherlock swallows. He cannot deny that. But Moriarty is shaking his head at him patronisingly. 

“I knew you’d fall for it. That’s your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act,” he adds, pausing after each word. 

Sherlock’s brows furrow. “Do it? Do – do what?” _What can he possibly want with me? I fled prosecution, I’m working on a way to prove the evidence was planted, there is no way anyone would believe I was behind the cure, so –_ Sherlock’s mind suddenly crashes to a halt. 

“Yes, of course,” he murmurs as another piece of the puzzle slots into place. “My suicide.”

That draws an outright laugh from the other man. “‘Genius detective proved to be instigating revolution’. I read it in the paper, so it must be true,” he drawls, his voice fused with fake hysteria before dipping lower, turning hollow. “I love newspapers.”

Sherlock’s throat is dry as he shifts his stance to buy himself more time to think. He has yet to see what Moriarty’s endgame is, and not knowing is gravely unsettling. 

*

“On your left!” John hears Lubitsch shout behind him. He whips around, aims, fires – another man in dark clothes drops to the ground, his semi-automatic escaping his grip. 

It is the third thug they discovered and by now they have given up any hope of making them talk. Lubitsch uses the last of his rope to tie the man up – another twenty-something, this time an Omega, maybe trained as a mercenary abroad. John has heard of places where Omegas are favoured fighters, given they can also barter with sexual favours. 

The former headquarters are right around the corner, though John doubts this was the last of Moriarty’s men. 

“Where do you think they’ll meet?” Lubitsch wonders, pocketing the last of the ammunition they lifted off their last opponent. 

“Maybe somewhere with easy sniper access? Moriarty seems to like having them around.” Red dots on Sherlock’s chest are still a major part of John’s nightmares, on the rare occasion that they still plague him. 

“Well, that rules out most larger rooms below the ground.”

“And the roof was pretty damaged, I heard,” John adds. 

“What about the garden? You know, that patch of green, without flowers or trees where we used to grill sometimes? The one the building shared with the ones around it?”

John hums, nodding slowly. “It’s our best shot. We should split up – you take out the snipers, I’ll be on the ground and hopefully I won’t be too late.”

“You got it, Watson. And look what I have.”

John turns towards his comrade, expecting a lot but not the dictaphone as well as the pair of miniature walkie-talkies, one of which he hands to John. “That’s brilliant, mate!”

“I am to please,” Lubitsch replies, a smug grin on his face. “Let’s get this party started, shall we? Don’t you dare move until I secured the perimeter, you got me?”

He rolls his eyes, giving the other man a playful shove. “I might not be on active duty anymore, agent, but I still know the basics.”

Lubitsch leaves with a hushed laugh. John takes his time, exercises precaution while entering the building, trying to stifle the memories that come with the place. They hardly ever strayed to the higher levels, but being back after all this time is still uncanny. 

The radio crackles shortly after. “One sniper down. Do not engage before I finish the sweep.”

“Understood.”

John has reached the hallway leading to the garden, an open door granting a view of two lone figures, one unmistakable Sherlock. It takes all of John’s self-control not to barge into the situation right then and there. 

His walkie-talkie is set to the lowest volume, so he dares approach a little more. As soon as Lubitsch gives him the all-clear, he is going to shoot the obnoxious arse that is Moriarty once and for all. 

*

Sherlock clears his throat, tightening his grip on the Sig. “What do you want me to do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Moriarty shoots back, his tone crisp. 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, thoughts galloping through his synapses at lightning speed. “You chose this location for a reason. You want me to kill myself here, because it is-” 

“Exactly where your fall from Alpha grace started,” Moriarty interrupts, finishing his sentence for him. “And you’re going to leave a note.” 

Sherlock is momentarily tempted to ask why when the answer emerges from the turmoil that is his mind at the moment. “You want another revolution. I am to incite the Omegas into rebelling with my note, am I not?” 

Moriarty claps his hands together, the sound of his applause bouncing off the walls surrounding them. “Knew you would get there, Sherlock. It’s your fault the last civil war was so brief. Hardly any anarchy.” 

“Well, it’s a nice plan,” he sneers, “but what makes you think I will help you start this?” 

Moriarty does not answer right away, probably pausing for effect if Sherlock had to take a guess. However, the next sentence out of his mouth makes the blood freeze in Sherlock’s veins. 

“There are snipers targeting your precious pet, Sherlock. He followed you. Just like that military friend of his. Now they have red dots on their heads… Just one wrong movement and the trigger gets pulled, unless I call them off. You do as I say or you will lose your mate forever.” 

Sherlock’s head fills with a constant stream of _nonononono_ while his eyes widen and his chest feels like Moriarty is forcibly squeezing it together. He realises too late that he did not object to the terminology. 

Which of course does not escape a man like Moriarty. “Oh? Is it official yet? When’s the first cub due?” he jeers, and Sherlock cannot deny the slight jab of pain he feels at his words. “I was wondering, Sherlock, why hasn’t he bred you yet? Now you’ll die childless.” 

Instead of engaging him, Sherlock clears his throat. His voice is still a little shaky when he speaks again. “I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.”

“Oh, just kill yourself,” is the immediate counter. “It’s a lot less effort.”

His eyes dart to the guns still in his hands before Sherlock can control his reaction. He can see how Moriarty wants this to play out: he will direct the gun at himself, Moriarty will make sure someone finds the body and everyone will believe Sherlock ended his life because the truth of his devious plan was uncovered. 

Moriarty must see, though, that Sherlock is still considering alternatives, for he steps closer with an eerie grin. “Your mate will die if you don’t do as I say.”

Unbidden, his hand starts to shake, the tremors visible in the slight movements of the gun. 

“Unless my people see you die.”

 _Think, damn it!_ Inside his mind he is shouting, screaming, tearing open cupboards and drawers, looking for anything that will get him out of here. He could just shoot Moriarty, what is one murder, really, compared to what will happen if Moriarty gets his way?

A few metres away from him, all Moriarty does is laugh. 

“Oh, Sherlock, your face! It’s precious. But all the scheming in the world won’t help you now. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s going to prevent them from pulling the trigger except seeing you die. The love of your life will die... unless...”

Swallowing around a pair of invisible hands choking him, Sherlock mutters, “Unless I kill myself – complete your story.”

Moriarty nods, content. “You’ve got to admit that’s sexier.”

“And I die in disgrace.”

“Of course,” Moriarty agrees immediately, looking as though he cannot for the life of him fathom why anyone might not understand that. “That’s the point of this.”

Panic is rising in his chest. There is no way out, no secret card to play, no ploy to conduct, no deus ex machina for Sherlock to activate. He will have to die for John to live. 

“And the Omegas will be angry,” he whispers almost absent-mindedly as he tries to recall what his last words to John were. 

“And start another revolution,” Moriarty concludes the thought. “Everyone’s happy.” 

_Except John_ , Sherlock thinks miserably, watching Moriarty pull a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. He unfolds it, holds it out. Sherlock can make out the words, justifications of his actions, a confession to stealing the virus, to conspiring with his brother, to wanting Omegas to step up and change the course of history. 

“You only need to sign it,” Moriarty says, his tone soothing. He is smiling, eyes wide open and meeting Sherlock’s, unblinking. 

A passing thought goes to faking his suicide, but a quick rundown of his options proves it impossible. Moriarty chose the location well. Moriarty played the game even better, Sherlock has to admit with a considerable amount of bitterness. 

_For John,_ he decides, and extends his arm to accept the note. 

_BANG!_

The sound of a shot takes Sherlock by surprise, making him flinch away. When his eyes find Moriarty again, the shifter is crying out in pain, crumbling to the ground and clutching his left shoulder. Both their heads whip around to where the shot originated. 

The sight of John, arm and gun still outstretched in front of him, his face grim and determined, has to be the best thing Sherlock has seen in his entire life. 

A shrill sound fills the garden and it takes Sherlock a moment to recognise it as Moriarty’s laughter. 

“You can’t escape this, Captain Watson!” he implores between fits of laughter. “The sniper already has his finger on the trigger.” 

John merely raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean the sniper who’s been caught and taken into custody? That sniper?”

Moriarty pauses. Sherlock feels his eyes widen and his lips part in amazement. 

Of course Moriarty interrupts the moment, cackling manically. “It doesn’t matter!” he cries, shifting on the ground in order to climb to his feet again. “The newspapers have already run the story. The phials are in your flat. No one will believe you.” 

He clambers to his feet with a wince and a grin. But Sherlock is watching John – John, whose jaw has gone slack all of a sudden as if he had just had an epiphany.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” he asks Moriarty. “Not just the bribes for the hate crimes and the jury – you had your hand in all the major cases we solved. Every single one dealt with social injustice. You wanted the people to be in uproar.” 

The other man gestures as if it all were self-evident. “Of course. The cure was just the final straw.” He takes a step closer to John and Sherlock does not even think before adjusting his aim and taking a step closer so that he is almost between them. 

He hates the way Moriarty’s eyes trace the contours of John’s body while he murmurs, as if to himself, “I should have made the effort to kill you after all, John. You’re too much trouble.”

Red, hot rage ignites somewhere in Sherlock’s stomach at the suggestion, spreading rapidly through his entire body and filling Sherlock’s mind with images of clawing Moriarty’s eyes out with his bare hands. 

John, on the other hand, remains completely calm. “Was that your plan when you revealed Harry’s location to us? The informant – he was one of your men, wasn’t he? Just like you orchestrated the case with the maimed agent at the same time?” 

The other man allows himself a smug grin. “I knew Sherlock here wouldn’t follow you when an MI6 operative had just been skinned.” Then his face falls. “Or I thought I knew. I underestimated his attachment to you, John.” 

John nods. “That’s why you set the sniper on me. To blackmail Sherlock.” 

“Obviously.” Moriarty looks between them, something like woe colouring his features. “And you stopped him. Too bad. You will be tried as an accomplice, John. Do you want that?” 

“No one’s going to believe your story,” Sherlock gripes vehemently. 

Yet Moriarty is shaking his head, baring his teeth in his following smile. “Oh, but yes, they will,” he whispers, his voice growing ever more reverent as he continues. “Just like the British accepted Mycroft Holmes’ story about serving his country. Just like Pyotr Orlov believed me when I told him Holmes would be a great asset. Just like the prison guards believed my men when they distracted them with free food while your brother sneaked out.” Moriarty draws a deep breath, releasing it as he spreads his arms. “Just like now. Chaos will rain on the nation as the Omegas take up arms against the government and enslave the Alphas, believing they are putting them in their rightful place. Other countries will follow and the world will burn!” he hisses in a frightful tone of voice. 

Sherlock’s stomach lurches as the full extent of Moriarty’s character is laid out before him. A genius, but deluded, his mind transformed into something so far from everyone else. It must have been a lonely existence, Sherlock muses. 

Out loud, he says, “You’re insane.”

Moriarty sneers. “You’re only getting this now?” 

They are his last words before his hand snaps to the back of his trousers and sooner than either Sherlock or John can react, there is a gun in his hand. A shot rings out. Brain matter is scattered across the grass and Moriarty’s eyes are staring up towards the sky, empty of life.

The shocked silence lasts only for a few moments before John’s hands dart to something on his belt, lifting it – a walkie-talkie. The sound of static fills the air before John speaks. 

“Rick, did you hear that?”

“Me and the dictaphone both, Captain.”

It takes a second for the implication to fully sink in. When it does, Sherlock feels a wide smile conquer his features as he turns to his partner. 

He wants to say something, praise John for his foresight, his planning, but the words die in his throat as familiar arms wrap themselves around him, pulling him close against a firm chest. 

John buries his face in the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He can feel the Alpha inhale deeply and Sherlock mirrors him, letting the soothing scent of his partner wash over him, calm his pulse as well as his mind. 

John draws back too soon, though a moment later his lips are on Sherlock’s and everything is well. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he presses closer, hands clawing frantically at John’s shirt for a moment before the slow stroke of John’s tongue against his own reminds him that there is no urgency. It is over and John is alive, warm and breathing and _perfect_ in his arms. 

Sherlock has so many things he wishes to say but when they part and their eyes meet, he sees there is no need to voice them. John already knows. 

*

The following twelve hours pass in a blur. John hardly has time to catch his breath, let alone call his sister, who left several worried voicemails on the phone that Scotland Yard grudgingly handed back to him. 

The first police car at the scene comes with Olivia, who puts her foot down and makes the officers listen to Lubitsch’s tape first before taking anyone in. After that, she gives them a ride to the station, without handcuffs, and calls ahead to inform the Commissioner. 

It only takes one threat from John to call the Prime Minister for him to release Greg from his cell. The Alpha joins them after sharing a lasting hug with Olivia – it might have been more if they weren’t surrounded by half of Scotland Yard. 

“Thanks for that,” Greg tells them, patting them both on the back in his good mood. “How’d you swing it?”

To John’s surprise it is Sherlock who answers. “John and his friend caught Moriarty’s confession on tape. Rather clever, wouldn’t you say, detective?” 

“No need to sound so surprised, Sherlock,” John cuts in as he catches the glint in Greg’s eyes. Whatever comment he had prepared would not have been funny, he is certain of it. 

“I’m not surprised, John,” Sherlock argues. “I have known for a long time how exceptional you are. I believe what I am doing right now is called ‘boasting’, something I’m sure Gavin here will do as well as soon as he learns of Olivia’s feats out on the field tonight.”

“Really?” Greg turns around to where his girlfriend is talking to the Commissioner who seems to be praising her as well as far as John can tell. “Well, I’m glad you approve of her, Sherlock.”

“I think it’s his way of thanking you for tipping us off, Greg,” John offers with a smile. 

“If he’s really grateful, he could start using my name,” Greg quips, mirth colouring his voice. 

“I’m not sure what you mean, Geoff, I am perfectly aware of your name,” Sherlock shots back, though John can see the corners of the Omega’s mouth twitching as he tries to contain his amusement. 

“Lestrade!” suddenly comes from their right and the Commissioner is waving the DI over to them. 

“Let’s see if he’s happy enough with me to revoke my suspension and hand me back my badge,” Greg sighs. “We’ll go for pints, John. Take care.” With that, the Alpha hurries over to his boss. 

“Too bad we can’t use Moriarty’s testimony against your brother,” John says after a moment. “Bloody immunity. Bet he won’t be happy when he finds out it was Moriarty who helped him escape.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Not at all. Do you think if I play nice that I’ll be allowed to tell him?”

John grabs Sherlock’s wrist eagerly. “Let’s try.”

Which is how they find themselves at a SIS facility later that day, being led down a hall of holding cells. The guard opens the last door on the left, revealing Sherlock’s brother. Prison garb does not suit him, John muses, neither does the slight stubble he is sporting. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes at them. “It has been resolved, I take it.”

Sherlock nods. “Moriarty is dead. John caught his confession on tape. It was all rather impressive. I’m almost sorry you missed it.”

“Save your false sentiment, brother dear,” Mycroft drawls. “Are you here to set me free or to gloat?” 

“I don’t know why I cannot do both?” Sherlock’s grin is all teeth and at that moment John is incredibly grateful that he is on the Omega’s good side. 

“We’re also here to tell you that it was Moriarty who helped you escape and set you up with Russia,” John offers. “How does it feel to know you’ve been played?”

“I won’t give you the satisfaction of letting you see it get to me, Captain Watson,” Mycroft insists. “As long as Britain is back on her path to prosperity and I am alive to see it, all is well.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No need for theatrics, brother. You’ll have your work cut out for you, I fathom.”

“Yes, so would you please vacate my cell and let me return to my post?”

“Of course,” John agrees before retrieving the last ace from up his sleeve. “Who’s Yelena?”

It is not so much an attempt to humiliate Mycroft as it is indulging his own curiosity. When Sherlock and he learnt that an Omega had also been taken into custody given her residence in Mycroft’s flat, Sherlock had gone as far as narrow his eyes in confusion. If something about his brother baffles the detective, it sure enough intrigues John. 

Mycroft’s cheeks seem to be torn between blanching and flushing. “My personal assistant.”

Of course Sherlock is quick in putting it all together. “Are you saying you took the Omega the Kremlin supplied you with back to Britain? Why? Are you suddenly interested in starting a family?” 

Sherlock sounds as puzzled as John is feeling. Never in a million years would he have pegged Mycroft as the sort of Alpha to take a mate, even by force. He has always struck John as even more cerebral than his younger brother, with no room for anything sexual. 

“Don’t be daft, Sherlock, it does not become you. I am not a monster, no matter what you would like to think. Yelena is a capable person. I saw no reason to leave such an asset behind.”

John watches Sherlock’s expression turn even more pensive as he hums, though after a moment he seems to decide to let it drop. For now. 

“Well, this has been fun,” he says instead. “Come along, John. Let’s leave my brother to revel in his shame in peace.”

John chuckles, directs one last incredibly self-satisfied grin at Mycroft which he hopes conveys at the same time just how much he would still love to make the Alpha suffer for all he has done in his life, before following his partner out of the prison. 

*

When all is said and done, his name cleared and his badge returned to him, Greg takes Olivia home, makes them both tea and huddles close to her on the sofa. 

“I heard what you did at the scene today,” he murmurs, stroking her back with his right hand. “I think even Sherlock was impressed.”

Olivia blushes at the praise. “I don’t know what got into me, but I… I just gave them orders, and they actually listened to me. They _listened_ ,” she repeats, sounding dazed even twelve hours later. 

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers since he isn’t sure whether Olivia picked up on it from his tone.

She shifts against his side, angling her face up to meet his eyes. “You approve, then?”

“Yeah,” he replies. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, and Greg knows exactly what he wants to say. “I love you.” 

Olivia’s eyes widen for a moment before a blush colours her cheeks. She buries her face in his neck; Greg can feel her nose brushing his skin there. 

“I love you, too,” she murmurs, and Greg’s arm tightens around her. 

They stay like that for a long time. 

*

“Would you like some tea? And a late dinner, perhaps?” 

Mycroft hesitates, taking in Yelena’s exhausted posture. Even now she is still subservient, no matter how tired she must be after a night in a cell without knowing what the future holds for her. 

“Why don’t I make tea for a change and we order in?”

She grows still, eyes widening in shock. Mycroft doubts anyone has ever made the woman tea in her life. 

“W-why?” she stammers, the fear in her voice reminiscent of those first few weeks she spent with him in Russia. 

Mycroft does his best to give her a friendly, absolutely unthreatening smile. “Because I am sure you are exhausted. And, maybe, to show my gratitude for your work. I don’t show it enough.”

“There’s no need, sir –“ she begins, yet falls silent as soon as she sees Mycroft shaking his head. 

“There is. You are a skilled personal assistant and one day you will be as content with yourself as I already am.”

Silence falls, stretching between them for several minutes during which Mycroft can see Yelena’s thoughts play out on the canvas of her face. Whatever conclusion she draws, it seems to be a positive one, for her lips transform into the most tentative of smiles. 

“I’ll be waiting on the sofa.” She curtseys, then walks past him into the living room. 

It is not too often that Mycroft feels completely at ease with his own self. Too much blood coats his hands, too many mistakes are shrouding his self-image in dark and heavy clouds. Yet when he receives another smile as he sets down the china in front of Yelena, he thinks he really might not be that much of a monster after all. 

*

As soon as their door falls shut behind him, John throws himself into his armchair, finally allowing the exhaustion to get to him. 

He would have drifted off within minutes, but Sherlock seems to have other plans for he climbs into his lap immediately, straddling John’s hips. 

“I believe I owe you a blowjob from yesterday morning, before we were so rudely interrupted,” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear. He can feel Sherlock’s hardening erection through too many layers of fabric where it presses against his stomach and shivers in anticipation. Any exhaustion he might have felt dissipates immediately. 

“Please,” he gasps, which is all the consent Sherlock needs before he sinks to his knees, still graceful as ever, the git. 

Hands are stroking up and down John’s thighs while Sherlock’s heated gaze meets John’s from underneath long lashes. He watches Sherlock’s tongue emerge to wet his lips and he can feel his cock twitch in anticipation. 

Sherlock must have sensed it for his eyes immediately fall on John’s crotch. Long fingers trace the contours of his growing erection through his trousers and John has to grip the armrests to keep himself from winding his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and freeing himself. 

His mate – yes, his _mate_ , there is no denying that anymore, John realises with a jolt of pleasure – seems to think taking it slow is a good idea, for he opens John’s belt at a torturously low speed. He has half a mind to say something if he weren’t sure any comment would motivate Sherlock to lower the pace even more. 

By the time John’s cock is freed from the confines of his trousers and pants, it is almost painfully hard, pulsing from the faintest touch of Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock leans forward, stopping when his lips are a hair’s breadth away from the tip of John’s erection. The sound he makes is barely human, just strangled impatience, and his fingers dig into the chair. 

“Please, oh Christ, Sherlock,” John gasps, losing the battle with his hips, which jerk forward on their own accord until Sherlock’s lips finally touch his bare skin. 

Fortunately his mate does not draw it out any longer, tight heat enveloping him slowly as Sherlock takes more and more of him into his mouth. 

His tongue traces the underside of his erection as Sherlock draws back, eyes fluttering open for a moment to give John permission. He moves immediately, gripping Sherlock’s soft curls with a hand and exerting just the right amount of pressure to have Sherlock moan around his cock. 

It would have been the perfect blowjob, a prelude to even better post-case sex, if the sound of the door opening around the corner had not made both of them freeze. 

“Hello boys! Why didn’t you say you’re back, I made some biscuits,” Mrs Hudson’s voice drifts from the kitchen into the living room. “Do you want me to make you two some tea? I’m sure you’re –” 

That is as far as she comes before she finds them in the living room. As far as embarrassing positions to be caught in go, John figures, it could have been worse. He stifles a moan as Sherlock’s mouth tightens around his cock when he swallows without releasing John’s erection, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Mrs Hudson flushes scarlet, averting her eyes. “Really, boys, hasn’t anyone ever taught you to lock a door?” she chides, and John can feel his own blush deepen. “Well, I’ll just leave the biscuits on the table, alright my dears? I’m sure you’ll feel peckish after.” 

She hesitates as though wanting to say more, but thankfully thinks better of it and flees the flat. The moment they hear the door fall shut behind her, Sherlock lets John’s cock slip out form his lips. 

They manage to stare at each other for one full second before they erupt into laughter, the post-case giddiness mixing with embarrassment until Sherlock is panting against John’s thigh, out of breath with laughter and John starts feeling dizzy from it. 

Sherlock is grinning up at him, eyes open and happy, and his hand is gripping John’s knee for support to keep him from doubling over as the last ripples shake his body. 

John knows just as well as Sherlock does that they will forget to lock the door some other day in the future, even if they lock it now. He doesn’t care. Sherlock Holmes is looking up at him with a glint in his eyes, the biggest threat of the past years has been eliminated, and they are both alive and well. 

Somehow between wars and revolutions, torture and murder, John has become the most lucky bastard in the entire world. 

He has found his mate, and nothing will ever manage to stop them. 

 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s DONE! *cheers* I hope you enjoyed the finale as much as I did. Thanks so much to all of you who have commented and given kudos while this was a WIP. I appreciate it immensely! 
> 
> Please don’t hesitate to let me know what you thought of the finale, or – if you’re reading this in the future – what you liked, what you didn’t like, etc. Feedback feeds my Muse :)
> 
>  **As to future projects:** It seems as if “Mutation” will remain a WIP since my Muse seems to be in no mood for Harry Potter. Instead, she has latched onto a new idea… Bondlock! Aka a crossover of Sherlock and James Bond. It’s going to be a post-Skyfall Season 4 AU (disregarding the Special) in four parts. Part one is two thirds finished and will be posted once I’m done as to avoid longer hiatuses like I made y’all suffer with this fic.  
>  I can’t give you a definite date, so maybe just subscribe and you’ll be notified once I post something new :)


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